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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26984779">Are You Afraid of the Lake Monster?: Volume One</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedars/pseuds/cedars'>cedars</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/memphisbaines/pseuds/memphis'>memphis (memphisbaines)</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkygrocket/pseuds/Pinky%20G%20Rocket'>Pinky G Rocket (pinkygrocket)</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincerelymendacious/pseuds/sincerelymendacious'>sincerelymendacious</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Are You Afraid of the Dark?, Goosebumps - All Media Types, Psychonauts (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Animal Death, Anthology, Background Relationships, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Campfire stories, Child Abuse, Collab, Collaboration, Compilation, Cover Art, Creepy, Dark, Dark Comedy, Disease, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Execution, Eye Horror, Gen, Ghosts, Gore, Halloween, Halloween 2020, Harm to Animals, Horror, Horror Comedy, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Macabre, Monsters, Nausea, One Shot Collection, Paranoia, Scary, Scary Stories, Short Stories, Shorts, Speculation, Spooktober, Spooktober 2020, Spooky, Squick, Stabbing, Story within a Story, Supernatural Elements, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsanitary, Violence, Vomiting, War, Witch Hunts, one shots</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:42:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,362</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26984779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedars/pseuds/cedars, https://archiveofourown.org/users/memphisbaines/pseuds/memphis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkygrocket/pseuds/Pinky%20G%20Rocket, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincerelymendacious/pseuds/sincerelymendacious</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Camp Whispering Rock is back to its normal sleepy self after Raz foiled Coach Oleander’s dastardly plot to take over the world. This, in Lili’s opinion, is boring. Really boring. Around the campfire one night, she decides that she wants to experience something supernatural. Little did she know that she’d spoken the magic words that would summon the Spirit of the Scary, Suspenseful, Spine-tingling Tales-oh wait, that’s just Ranger Cruller. Well, in any case, the old man has tasked the campers of Whispering Rock with spinning the creepiest tales they can!</p><p>Halloween 2020 anthology project! Based around the framing device of the campers telling scary stories to each other. Inspired by and themed after children's horror media such as Goosebumps and Are You Afraid of the Dark? Content warnings are included in the summary for each tale if you would prefer to skip around. Fandom-blind friendly, but does spoil the end of Psychonauts.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Cover</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Table of Contents</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <ul>
<li><a href="#section0003">Prologue</a></li>
<li>J.T. Hoofburger - <a href="#section0004"><em>The Tale of the Specters of Cinderwood Ranch</em></a>
<ul>
<li>J.T. relates a story told to him by his grandpappy, of the elder Hoofburger’s eerie experience staying overnight at an abandoned ranch with a bad history.</li>
<li>Content warnings: <span class="cw">Depictions of war</span>
</li>
</ul>
</li>
<li>Clem Foote - <a href="#section0005"><em>The Tale of Mom’s Seafood Surprise!</em></a>
<ul>
<li>Something’s fishy in the Finger household, and it's not the silverfish crawling in the sink this time. Dinner isn’t sitting right with anyone in this dysfunctionally fun family- especially not in their stomachs!</li>
<li>Content warnings: <span class="cw">Child abuse, emotional manipulation, squick, unhealthy relationships</span>
</li>
</ul>
</li>
<li>Lili Zanatto - <a href="#section0006"><em>The Tale of the Infinite Obituary</em></a>
<ul>
<li>A young girl's investigations gets her into more trouble than she bargained for. Now she's entangled within a string of disappearances, and Camp Marsh's obituary grows ever-longer.</li>
<li>Content warnings: <span class="cw">Animal death, implied death, gore</span>
</li>
</ul>
</li>
<li>Vernon Tripe - <a href="#section0007"><em>The Tale of the Psychic Rodents</em></a>
<ul>
<li>A complete and detailed lecture on the history of the invasive species known as Psychikos Rattus Norvegicus told by PSI-Cadet Vernon Tripe.</li>
<li>Content warnings: <span class="cw">Disease, execution, paranoia, unsanitary</span>
</li>
</ul>
</li>
<li>Elton Fir - <a href="#section0008"><em>The Tale of the Sinking of the Fantaisie</em></a>
<ul>
<li>Elton very nervously makes his way through a story he has researched himself - the sinking of a luxury French ocean liner off the Florida coast in the 1930s, which is alleged to have been caused by a sea monster.</li>
<li>Content warnings: <span class="cw">Implied death</span>
</li>
</ul>
</li>
<li>Razputin Aquato - <a href="#section0009"><em>The Tale of the Puzzle Box</em></a>
<ul>
<li>Raz's family has been to many places. Two of the Aquato siblings - an exasperated older sister, and her adventurous little brother - are given some time to explore a cozy but unfamiliar vacation town they've stopped in. While out and about, they find an out of the way curiosity shop…</li>
<li>Content warnings: <span class="cw">Body horror, squick, vomit</span>
</li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><a href="#section0010">Epilogue</a></li>
<li><a href="#section0011">Credits</a></li>
</ul>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lili leaned against Raz, and let out a sigh under her breath.</p><p>Everyone was gathered around the campfire. Chops was playing a slow tune on his guitar. Others were roasting marshmallows, chattering amongst themselves, or drawing shapes in the dirt with a stick. Raz was stuffing a s’more into his mouth, not noticing the crumbs and melted marshmallow goo falling onto his jacket.</p><p>“Oh my god,” he mumbled between bites. “Where has this been all my life?”</p><p>Lili didn’t respond. Instead, she stared into the flickering flames of the campfire. She could feel her eyelids becoming heavy - but it wasn’t from sleepiness. The night was still young. The scent of melted milk chocolate, the twang of a guitar; it all failed to get her blood pumping like the adventure she and Raz only a couple of nights before.</p><p>Ok, so maybe it was an adventure for him. For her, it mostly consisted of being stuck in a chair in a mad scientist’s lab. She had to listen to him ramble on and on, threaten to take her brain out (a venture that never worked out - nice try, old man), and watch him poke at brains with whatever sharp implements he could find.</p><p>But despite never getting the chance to set him or Coach Oleander on fire, that night was a story straight out of <em>True Psychic Tales</em>. Not to mention, she and her boyfriend levitated down from a building. Which then exploded.</p><p>And gathered around the campfire she sat at so often, under the same sky, with the same fellow campmates… well, it was nothing like that.</p><p>Raz noticed the distant look in Lili’s eyes. He offered a s’more her way. “Want one?”</p><p>Lili took the sweet treat and took a bite out of it. The inside of her mouth swirled with the sugar, and the inside of her mouth swirled with thoughts. After swallowing, she sat up. The distant look in her eyes faded.</p><p>“I want to experience something supernatural,” she said into the flames.</p><p>The roar of the blazing flames grew quiet. Chop’s tune came to a stop. The nighttime symphony of crickets vanished. Even without seeing their eyes, Lili could feel the stares from the other campers. She looked up to meet them, daring any of them to say anything. No one said a word.</p><p>What broke the silence was the sound of leaves crunching beneath a pair of feet. Heads whipped around to face the sound. The sound continued and got louder, approaching the campfire. Raz gulped. Lili could feel her heart beating in her chest, but her eyes were lit up.</p><p>A shadow appeared between the trees. It was taller than any of the campers. In its hands, it wielded a tall, pointed staff, or perhaps a scythe. The figure walked into the light of the campfire…</p><p>It was Ranger Cruller with his rake.</p><p>“You want to experience something supernatural, I hear?” He raised an eyebrow and looked towards Lili. Lili nodded back.</p><p>“There’s got to be ghosts creeping around in the woods.”</p><p>“The only things creeping around in these here woods are you nippers!”</p><p>Cruller set down the rake. He took a seat on the one log nobody else was sitting on.</p><p>“Besides, y’all have heard the ghost stories about this area a dozen times.”</p><p>“N-no we haven’t,” said Elton.</p><p>Cruller ignored him. He reached into his bag and pulled out a large oak branch. Tied around it was colorful yarn and ribbons adorned with plastic beads of different shapes and sizes. The beads’ paint had long since faded, the yarn was unraveling, and the ribbons were frayed.</p><p>“I’m more interested in hearing your stories.”</p><p>“Our stories?,” asked Dogen.</p><p>“You’ve never told ghost stories ‘round a campfire before?” Cruller’s nostrils flared a tiny bit. Why Morry, Sasha, or Milla never told them ghost stories, he had no idea. Plus, in Milla’s own words, it would be a good ‘friendship building exercise’. </p><p>“It’s simple. Tell stories. Scare the bejeebers out of each other.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Tale of the Specters of Cinderwood Ranch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>J.T. relates a story told to him by his grandpappy, of the elder Hoofburger’s eerie experience staying overnight at an abandoned ranch with a bad history.</p><p>Content warnings: Depictions of war</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Which one of you rascals is going to start?” Cruller asked.</p><p>A long silence echoed through the air.</p><p>“I’ll-” Vernon began.</p><p>“Well, I reckon if no one else wants to, I’ll kick things off,” J.T. cut Vernon off.</p><p>Cruller handed J.T. the speaking stick. J.T. tipped his hat with one hand as he took the branch with the other. Then, he kicked back.</p><p>“I got a hunch I can make y’all shiver in yer boots with what I got to say.”</p>
<hr/><p>This here is a story related to me by my grandpappy, Elliot Hoofburger. He’s where I get my powers from, y’know. Nowadays he just likes to rest and do the crosswords. But back in the day, he was a mighty fine specimen of a cowpoke, stout and firm with a steady hand. Though he’s always been good ‘n honest, the folks of the small town he grew up in didn’t much trust him. Psychics had it even rougher back in those days, ‘specially in the South.</p><p>Gramps left town young, feeling there was no convincing the neighbors of his good intentions. He spent a few years wanderin’, doing odd jobs for ranchers like herdin’ cattle, gathering crops, and tending the fields. Never stayed in one place for too long. Finally, he landed in a more recent development named Coldwater.</p><p>With him being new, the folks there were more willing to give him a chance. But they didn’t make it easy for him to fit in. Gramps told me he more ‘r less had to go through a set of tests, to show he’d be worth his salt as a neighbor and no threat as a psychic. Most of it boring stuff. “Well if you’re a psychic, I betcha you can find my lost sow.” “Well if you’re really a psychic and not some sorta witch, we better make you sit through a few sermons so we can make sure yer powers ain’t from the devil.” Those sorts of things. Grandpappy did ‘em all with nary a complaint. He could deal with all the tedium if it meant having a real place to stay.</p><p>The last task he was given was somethin’ real different. The town mayor, a skittish fella by the name of Wilkes, came up to Gramps. He explained that, ‘bout five miles south and a bit to the east, there was an old ranch. Abandoned, mostly debris and half-standing shacks at that point. Locals called it haunted, gave it a wide berth. Wilkes bet that Gramps could talk to ghosts if he was psychic, and asked him to stay a night there to prove if the rumors were true or not. Grandpappy had never believed in spirits or demons or such, and he figured one last bout of traveling was a fine way to complete his trials. He set out for the ranch the next day.</p><p>Locals knew the place as Cinderwood, and stories about it swirled around like freezing winds on a cold desert night. The few facts known about it were foul. Slaveowners had established the ranch ‘bout a hundred years ago. That blood on the hands of its founders passed down to each heir, in the metaphorical sense.</p><p>By the time of the end of the Old West, it had fallen into disrepair. The owner of the time abandoned Cinderwood for greener pastures in Houston. And that was all that anybody knew. The rest was a rumor. There were dark stories of old Native wars, Confederate schemin’, and cows with their insides slashed open found ‘round the premises. No one could tell what was true or not by the time Gramps was made aware of it. One could argue that the rumors had power, though, and that they had given the place even more darkness than it already had. Words have got some power on their own, after all.</p><p>He had quite a time tryin’ to find someone to point him in the right direction. The folks in Coldwater that like him refused to say, said they didn’t want him meeting some unfortunate fate. And the ones that didn’t like him kept a tight lip, too. Superstition was stronger than distrust of a stranger, it seemed.</p><p>It wasn’t till Gramps tried the stable owner, Cruz, that he got an answer as to where exactly to ride. Cruz wouldn’t let him go empty-handed, though. ‘Fore Gramps could tip his hat and thank him for his time, the feller pushed something into his palm. His rosary. Gramps was Baptist by birth and told him that he didn’t know how to pray the beads or what else they did in the Mexican churches. Cruz told him just to trust. He seemed real worried for my grandpappy’s safety, even more so than everyone else in town. As he went back down Main Street, watchin’ shutters shut before he passed by and children hurrying home, it felt like Cruz was the only one who expected him to come back. Like he was a coffin bein’ sent out of town that everyone wanted to think wasn’t there.</p><p>Gramps arrived at the ranch before sunset. He was alone save for his horse, an old but trusty gelding he called Guv. A smart creature, he was, and he was plenty disturbed by the land he’d come to, pawing at the splintered bits of wood ‘round the edge of the ranch. Took quite a few snacks to keep him from running away altogether. Gramps said that weren’t a good sign.</p><p>The first hour or two passed by fine. Gramps hitched up Guv, then took a lap around to get a feel for the place. B’sides for a tumbleweed, a few stray sprouts, and a snake he found in a shallow hole, the land was dry and barren, which weren’t so unusual for that part of Texas. He said he could tell where all the main structures’d been, though, since the wood and the splinters made up the figures of where it all must’ve stood. There were big rectangular sets of broken fence where the cattle and sheep pens had once stood, bits and pieces of walls by where he figured the storage sheds and barn had been, and so on. He respected the premises. Even if there weren’t no such thing as ghosts, he was an honorable man, and an honorable man wouldn’t go ripping up a place that weren’t his.</p><p>He set up his things in the ruins of the house. It was only half-standing, and the paint on the wood that remained had all chipped off or been washed away. But Gramps found a square spot that must’ve once been a room, and that was good enough. At the very least, he’d have a view of the stars worth boasting about that night, thanks to there bein’ no ceiling.</p><p>While Gramps still felt the sliver of a bad feeling snaking around his insides, he said he felt good while the sun was still up. He’d brought snacks to make supper out of, and shared his apples with Guv while he cut a loaf of bread. He listened to what skitterin’ creatures he could hear making their way home ‘fore night. In half a day this’d be over with and he could come back to Coldwater, proven worthy of his good name. But as he ended up tellin’ me… it didn’t end up bein’ so easy.</p><p>Once the sun went down Gramps started a fire to keep any pests away while he slept. Had to scramble a bit to find rocks good enough for makin’ a pit, but at least he weren’t short on wood. He had it good and roaring by the time the stars started to sprinkle into the sky, and it kept the chill of the night from biting. Gramps kinda wished he’d brought a banjo or the like to make the evening brighter, but, I’ll tell you, I don’t get my harmonica playin’ from his side of the family. So he settled for stories. He told Guv about the lost sow he ended up chasing to El Paso, the widow whose husband’s ashes he’d spread on the bank of the river where they got hitched, and the buckwild gauntlet of preachy fire ‘n brimstone sermons. Challenges, all of them, but Gramps felt a richer man for doin’ them. He went to bed feelin’ more cocky than scared, knowin’ what he’d accomplished.</p><p>His first awakenin’ weren’t nothing unusual. Guv had gotten a bit tangled up in his rope tether while pacing around, and his whinny got Gramps to come out of the house and fix it fast. Even half-asleep, Gramps noticed that the energy had changed in the last few hours. The surroundings felt the same - same distant sounds of crickets and other insects, same stars in the sky. But it was startin’ to feel like he wasn’t all by his lonesome. Gramps hurried back to bed before the feeling could get to him.</p><p>The next time he woke, Guv was asleep, and the fire was out. And what’s more - he couldn’t hear a thing. No bugs, no winds. Had no clue what time it was, neither. And the worst thing was that the feeling he’d had before, the one of something else being there with him, hadn’t gone away, unlike the sound and the wind.</p><p>Gramps felt a rumble in the ground. He took his blankets off and pressed his palm to the cracking dirt. It didn’t feel so deep as to be an earthquake, but he knew he wasn’t imagining. He backed out of the shack and made his way to open land, for safety. Took Guv with him, too. Gramps didn’t need him getting hurt ‘fore the trip back to Coldwater in the morning. He found a new place to tie Guv down some ways away, using the sturdiest looking stray plank he’d found at the ranch’s edge as an anchor. With the ground still a’rumbling, Gramps turned around, and his mouth fell open in shock. He thought his eyes were deceivin’ him.</p><p>Bright little white wisps were rising from those very cracks of dirt he’d been running his hand over minutes ago. Too shiny and clear to be steam, and too pure and light to be smoke. Gramps wondered if he should make a run for it, but his feet felt rooted to the spot. The wisps didn’t seem to be coming for him, anyway; they didn’t go past the edge of the ranch. He watched as they danced and circled one another, all lazy-like. They’d come together, forming big pale blobs, then float away in a moment.</p><p>Gramps asked himself if these were the Cinderwood ghosts. They sure didn’t fit the classical ghostly picture. They had no faces, no arms or legs or hands, nothing all that human about ‘em. But he couldn’t think of a vapor with the sort of ghostly complexion that the wisps had. If these were the ghosts, he supposed, they weren’t so bad. He could watch their funny little dance for a while longer, get a bit more shut-eye, and then go back to Coldwater. Not the worst night he’d ever had, all things considered.</p><p>But Gramps had thought that too soon.</p><p>The rumblin’ started to get louder, and he had to balance quickly so he wouldn’t fall flat on the ground. Guv started to kick up dirt and gave a high-pitched whine. Then Gramps heard something new.</p><p>It wasn’t the sound of the wind or the insects coming back; it was this low noise, this sort of chant beneath the earth. Like a thousand people marching underground, whispering a witch’s curse. It made the specters restless. They stopped their dance and started to thrash around in place, their smoky ends going every which way in the air, torn apart by some unseen force. When the chanting got louder, their movements got rougher and angrier. Gramps scrambled in his pockets for Cruz’s rosary. Flinging it out and holding it tight to his chest, it was the best defense he had, seeing as his feet were still stuck in place.</p><p>The wind came rushing back, and blew dust into his eyes, making it even harder to suss out what was going on. When the chanters below the ground startled him with a giant, single shout, something bright red spilled out of the pure white blobs of the specters. Gramps couldn’t tell if it was real or from the pain. Scared stiff and in mighty pain, he shut his eyes hard. The rest of what he said happened that night came through his nose and his ears.</p><p>First came the smells. The scent of iron smacked him. That sticky, strong iron smell that only comes through the way of blood. Like a slow-moving plow, it kept pushing up against his nostrils, and he coughed and shook from how strong it was. Then there was the stink of rot and maggots, little snakes of it coming through the wall of the metallic smell. A stench of summer sweat cooked in the July heat and left to stew in the afternoon wafted through the air. The warmth of a fresh whiff of gunpowder, over and over and over again. Then sulfur and ash. Then something Gramps said he’d never smelled before on earth, and which he said he never wanted to come across again. His boots stayed right in place, and he could do nothing but retch and gag over it all.</p><p>There was no rest for him when the smells got a little less strong because that’s when the noises of the land’s past rose above the chanting. First came the sound of a battlefield. Now the gunpowder he was smelling came along with the cracks of muskets. He could hear knives stabbing into flesh, and men cryin’ out their last as they met their Maker. Then more cries mixed with the sounds of war. Babies with no mamas to tend to them wailin’, and whips cracking onto the hardened ground. He heard arrows piercing hearts, and men blighted with sickness rasping and scratching at their skin. The awful laugh of a rich ranch owner over the misery of his lessers-than. The terrified shouts of the poor few who had dared to brave the ranch before he had, and the yelping of their horses and dogs. Pigs and cattle being slashed apart, their deaths bubblin’ into their final squeals. It all came one at a time, and then it came all at once. Over a hundred years of pain and hate and all our human ills fell into his ears.</p><p>Gramps had huddled in a near ball on the ground by the time it was over. He hadn’t the faintest idea how long it had lasted, or why it had finally come to a stop. His eyelids fluttered to get all the dust out, and he saw the specters, back to pure white and their lazy blob forms. It looked like the ritual was done. When the chanting faded back into the earth, so did the wisps, sinking back into the cracks where they had come from.</p><p>Gramps ran for it once he could feel his feet again. Guv had gotten as far away as he could during the nightmare, but the plank he was tied to, somehow, had stayed fast in the dirt. Gramps ripped it out. He didn’t care how much longer it was until dawn, he needed to leave. Now. He kicked Guv and they hurried on back to Coldwater.</p><p>The first rays of dawn were peaking out when he returned. The run had left Guv desperate for a drink, and Gramps guided him down Main Street, careful not to let his walk make too much noise on the packed dirt road. Though next to no one was awake, just being among the living was a relief. He breathed in the familiar smell of the dusty air and listened to wrens singing in the sparse few trees throughout town. When he reached Cruz’s stable, he led Guv inside, feeling the walls of strong and unscathed wood. Waiting for everyone else to wake, he slept for a bit on lumpy bags of spare oats near Guv’s stall. It still felt like the best sleep he had gotten all night.</p><p>Cruz was real happy to see Gramps in one piece, of course. He didn’t ask about what had happened - he didn’t want to know - but he praised God and the Virgin for the safe return. Gramps gave him a genuine thanks for the lending of his rosary. While he didn’t believe in Cruz’s saints any more than he had before, it made sense to him that something divine had kept him protected from the awfulness of earth.</p><p>When he left the stable, all the townsfolk took a second look when they realized Gramps was back. As he’d suspected, they weren’t plannin’ on his return. Wilkes especially was sweatin’ when Gramps came up to him. He presented the faithful plank as proof that he had done as they’d asked. Yes, he had seen the specters of Cinderwood Ranch with his very own eyes. The mayor stuttered and stammered and stuttered some more before congratulation’ Gramps. From that day forward, no one made any more fuss about the town psychic.</p><p>Gramps stayed in Coldwater for a few more years before movin’ to Oklahoma. He found himself a good spot as the town repairman, fixin’ up anything that might need it. He was always the first to greet strangers in town, but he was also always the first to warn them about the ranch. He’d do it even faster than Cruz.</p><p>Gramps learned that night that evil can linger in the ground and the spirit plane, and that it would suck you in if you got too close. The dead don’t forget what they suffered in life - and given where we’re all sittin’ right now, we ought to not forget that, too. Heh, heh.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Tale of Mom's Seafood Surprise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Something’s fishy in the Finger household, and it's not the silverfish crawling in the sink this time. Dinner isn’t sitting right with anyone in this dysfunctionally fun family- especially not in their stomachs!</p><p>Content warnings: Child abuse, emotional manipulation, squick, unhealthy relationships</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After J.T.'s tale, the eyes of the campers were wide. But in Clem's eye, instead of unwavering fear, there was a bright spark.</p><p>“Oooh!” He started to bounce a bit in his seat. "Let me try, let me try!” In the back of his head, he bet he could do better than J.T. He had firsthand experience he could use.</p><p>“Yeah!!” Crystal chimed in. “You'll make a great tale! Spook-y, spook-y!”</p><p>J.T. passed the talking stick to Clem. Cruller flared his nostrils, but remained silent. He was too tired for this crap. But on the other hand, like he would miss out on an opportunity to see these little scamps scared out of their wits.</p>
<hr/><p>Once, there was this family called Finger. There was a dad (Mr. Finger), a mom (Mrs. Finger), and a son (Clarence Finger), and they were a family like any other. They presented the outside world with bright, happy smiles, and brushed off the many indignities and hardships slung their way with a shrug and a ‘that’s life, isn’t it?’. Once in their crumbling old townhouse, they let those smiles drop to the stain-strewn carpet. Inside the confines of their home, they allowed the resentment towards their lowly lot in life to flow freely through their blood.</p><p>Just like any other family.</p><p>Each member of the Finger Family played a role within the household. Mr. Finger alternated between breadwinner when he was employed, and breadloser, when he was not. Neither role suited him very well, but things were slightly better when he was a breadwinner, even if the bread he won was the hard, off-brand kind. More often than not he was the breadloser. This meant that he remained at home all day, slouched and sullen in the busted recliner, consuming copious amounts of…bread.</p><p>Mrs. Finger was the devoted housewife. She spent her days slaving over a hot stove, full sink, and a washer and dryer set that cooperated only when they felt like it. And for what? That was a question she often fired at the other Fingers, and no answer she received ever satisfied her. As she worked, she would sing a strange little song to herself, mumbled too soft for the lyrics to be made out. Clarence could hear this song no matter where he went in the house, and he had fallen asleep more than once to the sound of this low, rapid muttering.</p><p>As for Clarence himself, his role was to make things worse. If the dishwasher was broken, he would add to Mrs. Finger’s workload by daring to want his food served on a clean plate with the appropriate utensils. If Mr. Finger spent a single cent of his money on clothing for his son, Clarence would grow an inch overnight so that the clothing would not fit.</p><p>“Why don’t I just set my entire paycheck on fire?” Mr. Finger quipped once when Clarence had requested shoes that fit after outgrowing the old ones in three months.</p><p>Clarence was too young to be a breadwinner and too inept to help with the chores. He was a burden on his parents in every sense of the word. To top it all off, Clarence had enough extrasensory ability to be a psychic, but not enough skill to do anything useful or interesting. It was only yet another irritation to the pile that made up the Finger Family’s daily life.</p><p>Mr. and Mrs. Finger didn’t want Clarence around, but they couldn’t get rid of him. Doing so would land them both in the hoosegow, the only place where the living conditions were worse than what they endured. So they grit their teeth and bore Clarence’s constant presence in their abode. They coped with this as anyone dragging around a useless appendage would; by cursing its existence and fantasizing about the day when they could finally cut it off.</p><p>Clarence, for his part, took all of this with good humor. After all, if one could not laugh at their miserable circumstances, what were they supposed to do? Scream?</p><p>The Finger Family resided in a rundown section of a great rusting concrete jungle located in the American Midwest. It was the sort of place that was easy to get lost in and was comparable to a big hole. Once circumstances had tossed you into it, it was very difficult to climb your way out. Usually, you slid right back down to where you started, dirtier and more scraped up than you were before you began your futile ascent. For Mr. and Mrs. Finger, the collective failures had worn them down. The two of them had resigned themselves to spending the rest of their lives in this filthy hole.</p><p>Clarence, who had been born in the hole and despite all evidence, was still young and naive enough to believe that he would one day claw his way up to the surface. The older Fingers resented this and made sure to discourage such ambitions whenever they could. They were making great progress in doing so and could count the crushing of Clarence’s hopes and dreams among one of the few successful ventures they had embarked upon in their lives.</p><p>Despite their hardships, the world did allow the Finger Family a few comforts. One of them was a culinary spectacle that Mrs. Finger liked to call her ‘Seafood Surprise’. You might find it weird that a family as broke and distant from the ocean as the Fingers were would have been able to enjoy anything with fish in it. Yet, seafood was plentiful where they lived. A river like a long snake wound through the north side of the city, providing its citizens with a variety of aquatic delights. Many factories and garbage dumps banked this river. They added a taste of toxic sludge to the seafood’s flavor, but the people who consumed it saw little reason to complain. The fish was cheap and fresh, a rare combination for the denizens of this economically-challenged city.</p><p>Mrs. Finger made her Seafood Surprise twice a week, sometimes more if she was feeling generous and the sales were good. This pleased Mr. Finger because it provided him with the opportunity to harass his family with his quips.</p><p>“The only thing surprising about this dish,” he’d say as Mrs. Finger slopped a spoonful of it onto his plate, “is that it hasn’t put us all six feet under!”</p><p>Mrs. Finger would always laugh and say “oh, you kidder!”, grinning in the way that chimps do right before they tear someone’s throat out.</p><p>In truth, the reason Mrs. Finger called the dish her ‘Seafood Surprise’ was because she never used the same combination of ingredients twice. Canned mushrooms, canned corn, water chestnuts, olives, pearl onions, tater tots, spam, Vienna sausages, pickled pig’s knuckles, frog’s legs, frog’s eyes, pickled frog’s eyes, white beans, black beans, green beans, kidney beans, spleen beans, and even artichokes (canned, of course) had made an appearance alongside whatever aggressively fragrant fish she’d gotten on clearance that day. The only ingredients that were always in the dish was a layer of Bisquick on the top and a can of cream-of-corn soup used to give it a nice, glue-like texture.</p><p>Mrs. Finger loved serving this to her family. Nothing on television could compare to watching her two favorite men try to force the foul goop she put before them down without gagging. She relished the twitch of her husband’s eye as his teeth clamped down on a chunk of something vile. Her son’s face taking on a nauseous green tint delighted her. The time Mr. Finger had choked on a fishbone had been the most thrilling moment of their marriage for her. She partook in little of her cooking. She was one of those people who ate like a bird that didn’t know it was supposed to swallow the worm after pulling it out of the ground.</p><p>Clarence was the only Finger who did not enjoy the Seafood Surprise at all. Putting forkfuls of the mushy, gushy, tastes-twice-as-bad-as-looks, and three-times-as-bad-as-it-smells Seafood Surprise into his mouth was an exercise in torture. It wasn’t even something he could get used to, since Mrs. Finger managed to change the flavor profile into a different form of nasty every time she made it. And it wasn’t just a grievous assault on his taste buds. Clarence had suffered burns on the roof of his mouth and tongue, chipped his front tooth, cut the inside of both his cheeks, turned his gums black, and had even had a mild allergic reaction to the peanut butter Mrs. Finger had thrown in once on a whim. And those were the injuries that befell him while he was eating the Seafood Surprise. Trust me, you don’t want to know what it did to him after he finished!</p><p>The fear and revulsion Clarence felt towards the Seafood Surprise was so great that he formed a plot to get out of eating it. In books and shows featuring normal families, children were often sent to bed without supper when they said or did something to upset their parents. That seemed a simple enough task. He knew that he could annoy his parents by sitting near them and doing nothing. All that he needed to do was tell Mrs. Finger that her Seafood Surprise was the most disgusting thing he’d ever had the misfortune to lay eyes and tongue on. Then, she’d get so angry that she’d take his plate away and send him to his room. That, or she’d walk over to him and snap his neck. Either worked.</p><p>His plan went well at first. The words he had wanted to say came out of his mouth in an intelligible manner, instead of shriveling up and dying in his throat. But Mrs. Finger did not react in the way that he had expected or wanted her to. Instead of yelling at him and throwing his food away, she’d gone dead quiet. For long, agonizing seconds, she stared at him, registering the meaning of his words. The moment it did, her eyes narrowed. Hope rose within Clarence. He was certain that he would get the punishment that he sought.</p><p>And then, Mrs. Finger bent forward, her face disappearing into the palms of her hands. A high, keening wail pierced through the kitchen slash-dining-room, followed by several more in quick succession. The noises Mrs. Finger made rang in Clarence’s skull and he clapped his hands over his ears to block it out. It was a useless move. The barrier of two sets of hands was no match for the ragged and raw sobs that racked through Mrs. Finger so hard that her whole body shook with the force of them.</p><p>Mr. Finger took all this in with excitement, eyes alight with furious glee. “Look at what you’ve done to your mother, Clarence,” he said in a tone of awe usually reserved for great works of art. He jabbed his fork at the crying Mrs. Finger to ensure that Clarence knew where to direct his stare.</p><p>Clarence stared at Mrs. Finger, wincing as the audible equivalent of nails on a chalkboard pounded his eardrums. By now Mrs. Finger was getting into it. Her body convulsed so much that her chair scraped on the linoleum floor. Never before had Clarence seen such an outburst of emotion from either of the other Fingers. They preferred to dole out their displeasure in short, wasp-like stings. All this, Clarence thought, mouth curling up, over this plate of disgusting, no-effort garbage? Resentment boiled up within him, but Clarence did his best to turn it down to its usual low simmer.</p><p>Mr. Finger banged his fist on the table, rattling the tableware. “Look, at how upset you’ve made her!” he said, the volume of Mrs. Finger’s sobs necessitating that he shouted. His mouth kept twitching as he spoke. It looked like he was trying to smile but couldn’t quite pull it off, the muscles for that particular action having long atrophied due to disuse. “Never in the eleven or so years I’ve been married to this harpy have I ever got her to make sounds like that!” He smacked the table a second time, his hand hitting the prongs of his fork and flipping it off of the table.</p><p>“I-” Clarence didn’t know what to say. He knew he had to calm Mrs. Finger down somehow, but it was hard to think with all the moaning and shrieking and ‘look at what you’ve dones!’ going on all around him. All he knew was that he had to make her stop, lest he start bleeding out of his ears.</p><p>“I was kidding!” he exclaimed, his voice catching on the last syllable. “It was only a joke!” He hooted in a way that approximated laughter. “You know how much I love to joke!”</p><p>Mrs. Finger straightened, pulling her face out of her hands. Her face was red, but her eyes were dry and clear. “Really?” she asked, voice sore but her tone as sharp as a knife. “That awful thing you said was just a joke?”</p><p>“Sure was!” Clarence gave her a real teeth-gnasher of a grin to show her how sincere he was. “Guess it fell flat. Ha, let’s add ‘comedy’ to the list of things I suck at. But really, I…” He trailed off, looking down at the mass of vomit-colored hues congealing on his plate. “...I love your Seafood Surprise.” In his head, he sighed. He would not be going hungry tonight.</p><p>Mrs. Finger scrutinized her son for another long, silent moment. Any traces of her former sadness were gone, as if they’d never been there at all. Mr. Finger’s chair creaked as he leaned forward to watch, eager to see what would happen next.</p><p>Eventually, Mrs. Finger spoke again. Only two words, but they were two words that hit Clarence like a football to the groin. “Prove it.”</p><p>Clarence’s grin flattened out. “What?”</p><p>“Prove that you were joking.” She inclined her head at Clarence’s food. “Show me how much you love my Seafood Surprise.” Her eyes sparkled in a way that they hadn’t since Clarence was born. “I want to see you eat it.”</p><p>Mr. Finger made a noise of cheerful agreement. “Yes, son!” he said, saying the word ‘son’ like he was throwing at the wall. “Go ahead and chow down, if you love it so much.” His mouth spasmed again as it attempted an encouraging smile. “Eat up- you’re a growing boy, after all.”</p><p>“Uh…” Something odd happened to Clarence’s legs. They became disconnected from his brain, which was shouting at them to get up and run as fast and as far away from the table as he could. Unfortunately, his upper body appeared to function fine. Clarence had little choice but to submit to his parent’s demands and eat his dinner. “Well,” Clarence said as he picked up his fork, unable to even pretend he was in any way happy to do this, “Here I go…” Staring straight ahead at his favorite crack in the wall, Clarence stabbed his fork into his soft, gelatinous food. His fork hit the plate with an unpleasant ‘clink’. He swallowed, giving his throat muscles a quick warm-up for the arduous task ahead, then brought the fork and its noxious contents to his face. The stench hit him first, traveling through his nostrils to settle in his gut. “Down the hatch.”</p><p>There was no way for Clarence to identify what it was he’d thrown into his hatch. It had the soft texture of overcooked broccoli but tasted bitter enough to shrivel his teeth. The flavor did not pair well with the burnt dough topping, the cement-like cream-of-corn, or the faint hint of fishiness that accompanied bites of the Surprise that did not have fish. His mouth, unhappy as it was to have such an unnatural and unpalatable combination of food forked into it, opened up to eject its unwanted contents. Clarence tightened his lips to prevent it and swallowed instead, tipping his head back to aid the mush’s journey down his gullet.</p><p>A shudder of revulsion shot through Clarence as he snatched up his glass of water and took a swig. The water washed all traces of his mouth’s prior occupants away. The slight taste of tin even provided him with some relief from its lingering aftertaste. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then glanced first at his parents to gauge their approval of his performance. They met him with wide, fascinated eyes, their faces trapped in a strange half-grimace, half-grin. A nervous chuckle wormed its way out of his mouth.</p><p>“That was really good, ha-ha!” Clarence unscrewed his pinched features as best he could and managed a wobbly smile. “You sure know how to make a good casserole, Mom! I just can’t get enough!” he said as he hovered his fork over what he hoped was a chunk of potato.</p><p>Mrs. Finger glowed with praise. “How sweet of you to say!” She chuckled as she picked up her fork and plate, shifting closer to her son. “Here, have mine, since you love it so much!” She then tipped her plate over Clarence’s and began using her fork to guide her food onto his.</p><p>“Wh-” Wet splats and plops drowned his feeble protest out. “You don’t-”</p><p>“Nonsense!” The last of the yellow-green sauce dripped off of her plate as she shook it. “I’m your mother, and it’s my job to give you as much food as I can!”</p><p>“But I-”</p><p>Mr. Finger cut him off with another smash of his fist on the table. “Don’t be an ingrate, Clarence! Your mother’s doing you a favor!” Something sparked in Mr. Finger’s eyes and he picked up his plate. “Here, son!” he said as he reached across the table and flipped his plate over Clarence’s. “Have mine too! Why not?” Mr. Finger’s food fell all at once, some of it bouncing off of Clarence’s already over-crowded plate to land on the table. A fish fin flew off and stuck itself to Clarence’s sweater, its snot green shade providing a nice pop of color on the mud-puddle brown fabric. “Eat up, son,” Mr. Finger said as he settled back into his chair. The hard edge to his voice was at odds with his smile.</p><p>“Yes, Clarence,” Mrs. Finger said. She spooned a near translucent pearl onion onto his plate, the dirty diaper topping to his landfill-like meal. “Eat.”</p><p>What choice did Clarence have but to obey the order? Under the fervent eyes of the other Fingers, he shoveled the Seafood Surprise into his mouth one forkful after another. It stuck to the walls of his throat whenever he swallowed. The bits that did make it through his esophagus faced considerable resistance from his stomach. But somehow, Clarence found the strength to keep going, bolstered as he was by the support of his parents, who had begun to cheer him on.</p><p>“Eat,” they said in unison, smacking their hands in rhythm with their chanting. “Eat, eat, eat!” It was the first time that they had ever encouraged Clarence to do anything. He felt a primal need to succeed in this endeavor, as detrimental to his digestive system as it was.</p><p>By the time he’d gotten through half of the Super-Sized Seafood Surprise, Clarence’s senses began to fall away. The ruckus the other Fingers were making became very distant, and his vision began to tunnel in on the mountain of food he had to conquer. He ceased to take note of his fork gripped in his hand, or of the various crumbs and sauces sticking to his chin. Through some miracle even smell and taste became muted, in the way that physical pain can sometimes go unnoticed in times of great distress. At that moment he had become a human garbage disposal, driven only by the need to eradicate all trash put before it.</p><p>The sound of metal clanging against ceramic was like the bell in a boxing match, signaling the end of Clarence’s match with his dinner. He had emerged victorious, for there was not a scrap of the Seafood Surprise left, save for some greasy residue. Clarence blinked, unable to at first believe that his plate was clear, before realizing that yes, he had done it, it was all gone.</p><p>Smiling, he jerked his head up, wanting to bask in the pride his parents should have been bestowing upon him. But they were not there. At some point, they had grown bored of watching their son eat enough food to make three large pigs ill and had left him alone at the table.</p><p>The triumph turned to bitter ashes in Clarence’s mouth. He had not won a darn thing. The Seafood Surprise had defeated him. If the cramping in his stomach was any sign, it was going to be doing the most unpleasant victory dance in his insides throughout the night.</p><p>Clarence never again attempted to get out of eating his Seafood Surprise. You’d think it would have gotten easier for him after the debacle- what doesn’t send you to the morgue only makes you stronger, right?- but it wasn’t. This was because the very sight of the Seafood Surprise reminded him of his abject failure. That was a taste more bitter than anything Mrs. Finger could toss into the caustic casserole.</p><p>Clarence’s hope had drained away, but his resentment festered now more than ever. He would glare down at the Seafood Surprise with a fiery frustration burning behind his eyes. He would stare so hard that his vision would blur and tears would squeeze out and drip down onto the food, exposing it to the only bit of salt it would be seasoned with. The hatred within him rose radiated like heat, dispersing into the very air around him. Perhaps it was this sudden heating of the otherwise chilly house that acted as the catalyst for the very unusual thing that happened during one family dinner.</p><p>It began as it always did; with Mrs. Finger dropping the still-steaming Seafood Surprise into the middle of the table. This particular batch was even more unappealing than usual. Out of the yellow-brown topping poked several black, sinewy tendrils. Clarence regarded these tentacles with the same intrigued disgust one would a dead bird in the street. He was unsure if it was squid, octopus, or something else. It smelled bad, but not in the acrid way that burnt things did, which meant that the tentacle’s black coloring was natural. Strangest of all was the sharp, thorn-like protrusions lining the tentacles in place of the suckers that one would expect to see.</p><p>Clarence let his facial features settle into their usual ineffectual glare. Meanwhile, Mrs. Finger brought the spatula down onto the casserole to cut it. I hope she doesn’t give me a piece with any of...whatever that thing is, he thought, though he suspected that his mother had every intention of doing just that.</p><p>Mrs. Finger pressed the spatula into the casserole, the topping giving it the same amount of resistance a grape gives a hammer. As it sank in, Clarence saw the dish pulse upward, as though trying to push back against the invading spatula. Before Clarence could do more than tilt his head in confusion, a whip-like appendage lashed out and twined around the spatula’s handle. In the blink of an eye, the appendage hurled the utensil out of the dish and across the table. The rocketing spatula splattered Mrs. Finger and Clarence with an assortment of gloops, chunks, and slimes. Mr. Finger got all of that and the spatula right to the face.</p><p>“Ha-ha,” Mr. Finger laughed as the spatula bounced off of his face and fell to the floor. The impact left four angry red lines across his nose and eyes. “Ha-ha, very funny.” He rose from his seat, shoving his chair back so hard that it tipped over. “Look, Clarence, your mother’s starting up a slapstick routine. Isn’t that funny?”</p><p>“Um…” Clarence leaned away from the tentacle flailing under Mrs. Finger’s hand. “What is that?”</p><p>His question went ignored. “Dear,” Mr. Finger said, grinding his teeth down as he smiled, “if you really wanted to bust my gut, you should’ve used something much sharper.” He snatched his fork up and stretched his arm across the table, the prongs an inch or two away from Mrs. Finger’s face. “Like this.”</p><p>Mrs. Finger batted his hand away, unimpressed. “I didn’t throw that spatula at you. But if you want a real laugh, I can go get my knife.”</p><p>A wet explosion from below interrupted any further hi-jinks. What remained of the Surprise’s topping flew off as multiple tendrils broke free of their baked prison. They reached up towards the ceiling, swaying back and forth like a sauntering cat’s long, curving tail. One of them caught Mr. Finger by the sleeve, causing him to yelp and pull away, fabric separating from his arm. Glass cracked and then something emerged from the baking dish. Clarence had enough time to register one black, glistening eye before it barrelled into Mrs. Finger and off the table. It moved too fast for Clarence to make out more than a blurred mass of tendrils. He felt a small burst of air on the back of his legs as it skittered out of the kitchen and into the living room.</p><p>What does somebody do after witnessing something so bizarre, so horrifying, so unappetizing? For the Finger family, it was nothing. Mr. Finger stood, Clarence sat, and Mrs. Finger lay on the floor, having been knocked over by the most surprising thing ever put into her signature dish. Lucky for them, they were so accustomed to awful things that they were able to bounce back.</p><p>“Aw, look at that,” Mr. Finger said, lifting his right arm. There was a big rip in his sleeve going down from the elbow, and within that rip was a cut bleeding onto the shredded gray fabric. “That was my favorite shirt.”</p><p>“Oh dear,” Mrs. Finger said as she got up, using the chair to steady herself. “I must not have cooked that long enough.”</p><p>Mr. Finger snorted. “The one time you don’t cook everything into mush.” He ran a finger over his cut, observing the injury with something resembling amusement. “Heh, I always said that your cooking was dangerous, but this is a bit ridiculous, don’t you think?”</p><p>A tic appeared in Mrs. Finger’s jaw. “It’s not my fault,” she said, rubbing the elbow she had landed on. “The grocery store labeled it as black kelp.”</p><p>“Kelp? You were going to feed us kelp?” Mr. Finger shouted.</p><p>Mrs. Finger shrugged. “It was on sale.”</p><p>“Uh.” Clarence turned his head to look into the living room as his parents began grousing over the declining quality of the local grocery stores. “Shouldn’t we-” The crash of an unseen object falling cut him off. “Shouldn’t we call someone for help?”</p><p>“Call who?” Mrs. Finger inquired.</p><p>Clarence shrugged. “I don’t-” Another loud bang made him jump. “An exterminator?”</p><p>Mr. Finger whirled on his foot. “An exterminator?” he repeated, tone high with mockery. “Have you got the money to pay for an exterminator?”</p><p>Clarence shrank back in his chair, face red. “No, but um…” He turned his palms up, shrugging. “I just think that someone should go take care of that thing running around our house. You know, before it kills us or knocks more of our things over.”</p><p>“Well, why don’t you do it?” Mrs. Finger said as she went to get the dustpan.</p><p>Mr. Finger’s face brightened. “Yes, son!” he said, grinning at Clarence. “You go be useful for once and go catch that thing.”</p><p>Clarence went pale. “Wha-me?” he gasped, pointing to himself. “I, um, don’t think that would be a good idea.” He rolled up his sleeve and flexed his bony arm. “Don’t you always say that I’m a string bean with twigs for arms?” He chuckled. “I don’t think I’d be able to win a fight with an actual tangle of kelp, let alone whatever that is.”</p><p>“It’s not about your muscles,” Mr. Finger said. “You’re just the most expendable. You don’t do chores and you can’t make any money. The household won’t collapse if you get taken out.”</p><p>“You don’t do any of those things either,” Mrs. Finger pointed out as she guided shards of broken glass and chunks of food into the dustpan. “And you’re much bigger and stronger than Clarence is.”</p><p>Mr. Finger’s face screwed up like he had bit into a very sour lemon. “Need I remind you that I am injured?” he said, pointing to his cut (which had stopped bleeding, the skin around it assuming the lovely gray pallor of a corpse).</p><p>Mrs. Finger shrugged and turned away towards the trash can. She couldn’t have cared less about who went after the creature, having only spoken up to rub salt into her husband’s many psychological wounds.</p><p>Clarence sighed, resigning himself to a horrible death via his mother’s cuisine. “Can I at least arm myself?”</p><p>His mother fetched the broom (the spare one, not the good broom she used for special messes). Clarence held the broom crosswise over his chest and ventured out to the living room, steeling himself for the fight of his life.</p><p>“Knock ‘em dead!” Mr. Finger called after him.</p><p>The living room was a mess. The floor lamp was lying over the coffee table, which itself had been knocked askew. Fragments of glass from the lamp’s shattered bulb crumbled under Clarence’s shoes as he moved forward into the room. Drops of black gunk hardened into the carpet, marking the creature’s chaotic path. The droplets led to the curtains, hanging limply off the curtain rod and lined with holes.</p><p>The worst of the damage was on the ceiling. Near the window where the ruined curtains hung was a hole the size of a basketball, particles of plaster, wood, and dust still hovering in the air. Clarence took one cautious step towards the hole and then another. His gaze never wavering from the jagged wound in the ceiling, not even to blink against the debris entering his eyes. He brought his broom up over his head once he was under the hole and peered up into it. It was too dark to see anything, so he lifted the broom as high as he could and stuck the handle into it. He half-expected it to be snatched right out of his hands.</p><p>But it wasn’t. The creature wasn’t within poking distance of his broom. Welp, Clarence thought as relief flowed through him. No way I can get to it. The hole was too small for his body, skinny as it was, to fit through. Besides, it wasn’t like the ceiling would have been able to hold his weight for very long anyway, weakened over the years mold and water damage. He reported this to his parents and they had little choice but to agree with his assessment.</p><p>“This is just great,” Mrs. Finger said as she stalked into the living room, hands on her hips. “Who's going to pay to get that hole fixed?” She narrowed her eyes onto Clarence like he had an answer.</p><p>“Our insurance?” Clarence guessed, coughing against the dust.</p><p>Mr. Finger hacked out a chuckle. “They’re not going to cover kelp-related damage,” he said with scorn.</p><p>Several thumps from above had the family snapping their necks upward. Startled, Clarence thrust the broom hard into the ceiling. The impact scared the creature into moving down the hallway, the sounds of its movements fading as it fled.</p><p>“Now look at what you did,” Mrs. Finger said, pointing up at the crack left behind by the broom. “Was the ceiling not damaged enough for you?”</p><p>“Great job, son,” Mr. Finger added in.</p><p>Clarence mumbled out a sheepish apology.</p><p>After a few hours of running around like a group of headless chickens, the Finger Family gave up and accepted the new annoyance into their life. “It might stay up there in the ceiling,” Mr. Finger said, his uncharacteristic optimism drawing strange looks from his family.</p><p>“Are you saying that we should let it roam around loose?” Mrs. Finger asked.</p><p>“Well, what do you want me to do?” Mr. Finger yelled, throwing his left arm up (the right seemed unwilling to be raised). “You want me to burn the whole house down?”</p><p>Mrs. Finger looked away and didn’t raise any further objection. She found her husband’s willingness to throw in the towel at the first sign of difficulty pathetic. Yet, Mrs. Finger herself too worn out to figure out a viable solution to their pest problem.</p><p>Clarence said nothing at all, distracted by a sensation that had bloomed at the front of his head. It felt like his brain was being touched, but it was too faint for him to be certain if it was real. It became stronger when he entered his room, and that unnerved him so much that he slept in the hallway.</p><p>At first, it seemed like Mr. Finger would be right about something for once. In the days that followed, the creature never emerged from the ceiling. It was still there, but since the Fingers couldn’t see its awful, writhing form, they could pretend that it didn’t exist. They blamed the thumps it made as it moved on other things; the house settling, the old pipes rattling, or one of the appliances sputtering. Mold was responsible for the little black spots that began decorating the plaster. And those holes? They were already there. They even went so far as to claim that the big hole had been the result of Clarence’s antics. “We would have grounded you,” Mr. Finger said as he taped a black garbage bag over the hole (hard to do with one functioning arm), “but it's not like you’ve got anything going on.”</p><p>Clarence dealt with all this in his usual manner; with the hope that things would get better despite nobody doing anything to make that hope a reality. The odd feeling that his brain was being touched returned, varying in intensity and only occurring while he was in his home. He theorized that it was his psychic powers activating in response to their house pest’s presence; the sensation was strongest wherever the noises it made were loudest. He didn’t know why his powers, which were dormant most of the time, were acting up like this, nor did he know what he was supposed to do about it.</p><p>This policy of feigned ignorance came to a screeching halt the day Mrs. Finger mustered up her courage and served her Seafood Surprise a week later. She used a two-headed fish that she’d discovered in the same marketplace she’d bought the ‘kelp’. Moments after she set the baking dish down, a loud bang had everyone jumping in their seats. Plaster, chunks of wood, bits of installation, and drops of black liquid rained upon the family and the food. Then, before anyone could so much as cough, down came the creature. It landed with a plate-rattling plop next to the baking dish, letting out a piercing screech that got the stray dogs outside barking.</p><p>The adult Fingers screamed while Clarence bent forward and clutched his head, eyes squeezed shut. He could not see what was happening, but he could hear a smack, a woosh, glass breaking amidst the splorch of something wet hitting the wall and sliding down to the floor. Mrs. Finger was screaming and Mr. Finger was yelling “get away, get away, get away,” as he fled.</p><p>This cacophony was all background noise compared to chaos now reigning inside of Clarence's head. In his brain he could feel the undulation of worms, squirming their way through every crevice. They constricted his rational thoughts and ate away at his nerves. The veins on his forehead throbbed so hard that it felt like they would pop. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and forced his head upward, trying very hard to breathe against the tight squeeze on his mental facilities.</p><p>The graze of metal over the top of his bowed head pulled him out of the cranial chaos. He pried his eyes open and discovered that he was alone with the creature, his parents having fled the table. It was deriving a great deal of amusement from throwing the dinnerware at the wall, hissing with satisfaction at every crash. This gave Clarence a good opportunity to study its weird, wiggling form. That it was black and had many barb-lined tentacles was something he had already known. But he discovered that they were coated in a dark slime that sizzled as it dripped onto the tabletop. Atop the tentacles sat its singular black eye. It was alight with the same glee that a toddler scribbling on a wall would have.</p><p>It wasn’t so big up close, nor as intimidating as it had been while creeping in the ceilings. What are you? Clarence managed to wonder with all the pressure squeezing his mind. Where did you come from?</p><p>His stomach let out a long rumbling growl. Oh right. I am pretty hungry, Clarence remembered.</p><p>The growl caught the creature’s attention, and it swerved to lock its solitary eye on Clarence. The worms slithering in Clarence’s head wiggled faster as the thing bored its black gaze into him. He groaned aloud against the swelling discomfort, and that set the creature off. It hissed out a shriek so high and loud that the glassware in the cabinets shattered. Pain rocketed from one ear to the other, then back around. Clarence groaned again, the sound rapidly evolving into a scream.</p><p>The creature lashed one of its tentacles at him and by some quirk of timing, the tendril caught itself in Clarence’s open mouth. His mouth clamped down in reflex, cutting off his scream. He was used to doing that when something gross entered his mouth. The tentacle’s barbs dug into Clarence's lip, tongue, and cheek, the sting worse than a bee’s. The creature made another noise, less of a hiss and more of a pained confused grunt.</p><p>Clarence should have found this horrible and painful. He should have wanted to throw up in his mouth, terrified by what would happen next. He should have spat the tentacle out and run away before the creature could wreak its vengeance upon him. But he didn’t do that, and he didn’t feel any of those things.</p><p>His stomach growled again, and he realized that he wasn’t hungry, he was ravenous. And this thing, this weird, ambulatory eyeball, didn’t taste half-bad at all. Kind of chewy. Kind of slimy. But also tender, with a strange, but not unpleasant citrus tang. Above all that, though, was that the creature was on his plate- or at least in the spot where his plate would have been. And if Clarence’s parents had taught him anything in this awful place, it was that he always, always had to finish his dinner. No matter the circumstances.</p><p>Clarence bit down, teeth crunching through sharp thorns and sinking into flesh. The worms in his brain began moving at light speed, but it made him feel good-great, even! Better than ever before!</p><p>The creature did not take this lying down. Once it broke out of its shock, it thrust another tentacle forward, this time at Clarence’s eyes. But it paused right before it could poke one of his eyes out. Or rather, it was stopped, by a skinny, glowing yellow hand gripping it. Oh, wow that works now! He gave a mad, mirthful chuckle as he marveled at the rare emergence of his psychic powers.</p><p>“A-ha,” he said, mouth full. “You can’t stop me, Seafood Surprise.”</p><p>Fear crept into the creature’s eye. It tried to break free of Clarence’s teeth and telekinetic hand. Clarence smiled wider and bit down again, this time separating the tentacle from its host.</p><p>“This is going to kill us both,” he said as he chewed, his face going numb. “But I’ve always eaten my dinner, no exceptions.”</p><p>The monster gave an agonized squeal and tried to pull away again, but Clarence, having finally tasted some decent food for once, wasn’t having it. He snatched it up in his hands, and when that wasn’t enough, called forth three telekinetic hands to help him out. How he did this, he didn’t know- maybe the squirming worms had helped him out- but once he had it in his grasp, he bit right into the eye.</p><p>It was like biting into a giant gusher. His teeth sunk into the flesh and then a viscous fluid poured forth. The flavor was like saltwater and darkness, like things far too ancient and cosmic for a mere human child to identify. The neurons in his brain were more active than his taste buds, firing all kinds of incomprehensible messages to each other. And when he swallowed, nothing seemed to hit his stomach. It dissolved and spread hot, psychic energy through his body, like it had been injected into his bloodstream instead of eaten.</p><p>The creature fought back, thrashing and struggling to escape its predator. Barbs sank into Clarence's flesh, making his fingers numb and his arms weak. It gained the creature nothing; Clarence’s telekinesis was stronger than it had ever been. Movements became fewer and fewer in the seconds after Clarence took another bite until they ceased, tentacles going limp. That makes everything easier! A sudden hysterical joy rose within him, and he loosened his physical grip on the creature, letting his telekinesis do most of the work as he ate.</p><p>As he chomped and chewed, he felt his senses fall away as they had during his failed rebellion. It went further this time, however; a split began to form between his mind and his body. It was not long before the two sides of himself separated altogether. His mind, worms included, traveled away from his body, still eating his dinner. He passed from the kitchen into the living room, and then out the door, where he saw his parents in the street. His father was chasing a stray dog that had ripped his rotting arm off like a wing from a cooked chicken. His mother watching from the sidelines, apathy etched into her expression. Careful there, Rover, he thought as he flew by, you don’t know where that’s been!</p><p>Mental movement sped up until the world became a blur around him. Before he knew it, he was diving into a great body of water- either the ocean or one of the Great Lakes; he couldn’t tell. From there he dove deep, plunging into murky blue water that darkened to pitch black. Down, down, down, his mind fell into the water, until he smacked into strong mental walls.</p><p>Darkness was all around Clarence, but he could see the slumbering Leviathan as clear as day. It was bigger than a blue whale, shades of every color known to man (and a few that weren’t) glimmering in its scales. The psychic force it exerted even when asleep thundered against Clarence's head, shaking his astral projection with its ancient power. This sure is nice and all, Clarence thought as he floated in front of the beast, but why am I here? What am I supposed to do?</p><p>Staring at the monster did not provide the answer to either of these questions, but it did help solve another mystery. The massive monstrosity had many eyes, all closed but one. That one was a vacant, gaping wound, seeping toxic blood into the water. Understanding dawned on Clarence. Golly! Somebody must have been fishing with a very, very long line!</p><p>He had little time to ponder how this sea beast’s eye had wound up in his mother’s baking dish. His projection jerked and then he was floating up, like something had hooked him and was reeling him in. In an instant, he was slammed back into his physical body, in time to swallow the last bite.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Tale of the Infinte Obituary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A young girl's investigations gets her into more trouble than she bargained for. Now she's entangled within a string of disappearances, and Camp Marsh's obituary grows ever-longer.</p><p>Content warnings: Animal death, implied death, gore</p><p>Note: Josiessaqua is the author of this tale; she does not have an AO3 or any social media.</p>
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    <p>No one was eating marshmellows, or anything for that matter, after Clem's tale. Lili glanced over to Raz for his thoughts. Instead, he replied with a wide grin.</p><p>“So what’s your story, scream queen?” Raz tilted his head. “Bet you got something really weird, huh?” If he didn’t watch it, he’d get some teeth knocked out soon.</p><p>“Scream queen?” Lili replied. “You’ll be the one who can’t sleep later, because of my totally scary - not made up on the spot - story.”</p><p>Lilli threw a log on the fire. The flames flashed, and embers flew haphazardly. The extra fuel made the fire brighter, and the shadows longer. Perfect.</p><p>“All that remains of the story are old rumors, wives’ tales told to young children to keep them from the woods. Every few years or so the tale is lost to time, and another child is claimed. Mom tells me about her childhood friend Lilith, whose insatiable curiosity led her to an untimely demise. Sometimes, I’ll mention Lilith. Mom tenses up, and her hands become cold. And then she’ll tell me about Camp Marsh’s Infinite Obituary.”</p>
<hr/><p>It was a warm evening in Camp Marsh.</p><p>The campground itself was only a decade old, but timeless rumors had already started. There were whispers of people disappearing along hiking trails, or sightings of strange creatures. In one harrowing account, victims roamed feral, eating each other alive. The land sold for cheap and thus, from the ashes of its misery the camp rose. These once victims were reduced to mere childish campfire stories.</p><p>Campers were dancing and playing in the muggy summer air. Lilith was looking after Rasmodius. Rasmodius was a bright-eyed, blond-and-white, never-stops-bouncing beagle. He belonged to one of the camp counselors, Sarah. Rasmodius licked Lilith’s palms, wagging his tail to and fro. As the shadows grew longer, Lilith began to wonder. By this time,  Sarah would be here to take Rasmodius. Sarah was a stern man, and he wasn’t late for anything <em>ever. </em>In fact, Lilith’s fellow campers were convinced he could teleport.</p><p>Rassie was eating a spider when the sun started to dip below the horizon. An overwhelming orange glow peeked through the trees, covering the worn, moss-covered cabins. Lilith stood up, dusting the cobwebs from Rasmodius’ collar as she attached his threadbare leash. Her gut lurched and she darted across the camp to the mess hall, Rassie in tow.</p><p>Lilith threw open the door. The door banged against the wall, causing a few girls to jump.</p><p>“Hello, Sarah? Mabel?”</p><p>A group of prep girls turned from their bead-making to see her trembling in the doorway.</p><p>“I think something’s up. I haven’t seen any of the adults for a few hours. Isn’t it weird that even the cook didn’t show up today?”</p><p>A blonde girl, Lucy, reached out for Lilith’s shoulder.</p><p>“We’ll ask everyone to look around. They’ll turn up, and we’ll look after Rassie for you in the meanwhile.”</p><p>Lilith nodded hesitantly and handed her the leash. Sweat was soaked into the fabric. If Lucy noticed, she hadn’t said anything.</p><p>Lilith leaned against the doorway to catch her breath. A faint whiff of Lucy's sweet lavender perfume tickled her nose. She knew it was stupid, worrying about such a minor issue. Anybody normal would have brushed it off as a strange coincidence. Since she was four, Lilith trusted any hunch, any subtle cue her brain would give her that danger was lurking. Adrenaline ignited her blood, sparking a fire in her gut. It was empowering, the clarity, the energy she possessed following her instincts, but this- this made her feel sick. Vertigo swelled around the room. There was a distant scream behind the burning sensation she felt rising in her temples.</p><p>She stumbled out into the open, desperate for fresh air. Her vision was fragmented, stringing together to give a vague idea of what was happening. Impenetrable darkness covered the campsite, only broken by the silver pallor of the moon.</p><p>Lilith tiptoed across the grass. Either her legs or the ground was swaying; she couldn't tell which. How easy would it be to scream out for her friends? Somehow, it seemed impossible, fear weaving between her lips, sealing them with its silvery tendrils. She inched over to her counselors’ cabin; they had an emergency radio to call the ranger with.</p><p>Lilith opened the door, its old hinges groaning with effort. Entering the room, she lit a match from her pocket. The radio was a faded dandelion yellow. She adjusted the frequency and picked up the receiver.</p><p>“Hello? I’ve heard some screams and I’m alone at the campgrounds. Can you send someone over?”</p><p>“Are you sure it’s not just some kids fooling around in the lake?” a gruff man responded.</p><p>“I’m sure, something bad’s happened.”</p><p>“Okay, stay put and stand by, over.” He grunted; a distant car engine sounding through the receiver.</p><p>Lilith switched off the radio, the static was starting to hurt her head.</p><p>Faint whimpering sounded from nearby. Lilith froze. It was only a matter of time until the ranger arrived. Then everything would be fine, right? She tried to swallow the lump in her throat a couple of times. Terror brushed the hairs on her neck.</p><p>Slowly, she edged out into the night, following the sound. As it got louder, visceral fear wrenched her gut. The whimpering wasn’t human. She was about halfway on the girl’s porch when she saw it. The entrails. They led to Rasmodius.</p><p>Blood and flesh streaked the weathered wood. He looked up with his glassy brown eyes at her. His noises were faint, relieved. She kneeled next to him, he was so trusting, so grateful for her to be there, as if she could help. She rubbed her hands across his mane, ignoring the patches of filthy crimson and silver amongst his golden fleece.</p><p>“Hey boy… I’m here. You’re such a good doggie, aren’t you?”</p><p>He shifted weakly, licking the coarse skin of her palms. He drifted in her lap, his life draining onto the wood. She dragged herself away from his corpse, feeling heavy, the guilt seeping into her shoulders.</p><p>Whatever had killed him… did it out of malice. The wound was too messy, too aggressive for anything else. Lilith clutched her hands to her chest, stepping into the girl’s cabin.</p><p>The lavender scent of Lucy’s perfume cloistered her lungs and stung her eyes. Sputtering in her hands, Lilith’s eyes focused on the luminescent wall in front of her. It was squirming, lit up neon green and writhing with pain. Thousands of fireflies, strung up in a web that stretched the entire length of the cabins back walls. Something dripped on Lilith’s head, she pulled her fingers from her forehead- it was liquid metal, still warm, the same stuff that was in Rasmodius’ fur. <em>Wait!</em></p><p>Lilith snapped her head upwards, silver strings, thick as rope canopied the ceiling. People were tied within the cocoons, unconscious. She lunged for the doorway, struggling to get up, oh <em>god</em>. The metal began to harden, binding her limbs together in a silvery carcass. A scream tore from her throat, chest rattling with exertion. She tried to look up, dragging her neck along the splintered wood. It ripped and tore into her skin, beads of blood forming amongst the impervious metal. Her head pounded, pressure reaching its crescendo. The ground started to slide beneath her, dragging her further into the nauseating green entanglement.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Tale of the Psychic Rodents</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A complete and detailed lecture on the history of the invasive species known as Psychikos Rattus Norvegicus told by PSI-Cadet Vernon Tripe.</p><p>Content Warnings - Execution, Disease, Unsanitary, Paranoia</p>
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    <p>While Lili was telling her tale, the crackle, snap, and pop of the flames had gradually become quieter. No one had a word to say afterwords, either. Well, except one nasally voice, who took advantage of the fact that he wouldn't get cut off.</p><p>“Can I tell a story?” Vernon asked.</p><p>Lili resisted the urge to groan. Some other campers tried to resist, but still failed. Cruller narrowed his eyes. He didn't come here for a damn history leson.</p><p>Lili handed Vernon the speaking stick. While his voice failed to elicit his excitement, his eyes gave it away. Finally, he could tell a story to <em>everyone.</em></p>
<hr/><p>Back in the old days when feudalistic governments were really popular and all, they used to tie witches and Catholics to poles and burn them alive. I mean they weren't always witches or Catholics, but a lot of the time it didn’t really matter, since it was the king who had made the kingdom Protestant, so basically, anything the Protestants didn’t like was considered witchcraft or dark magic. Even the smartest people of the era believed anything supernatural was directly evil. It’s kinda funny when you think about it, we would say “Hey, that’s stupid, you’re an idiot” nowadays, but back then these guys were the smartest of smart people. It’s crazy.</p><p>Anyways, there were these witches, who were probably just psychics since what they used to call witchcraft back then is just psychic related things nowadays, who lived under the king's rule. They didn’t go to church on one Sunday, since they were throwing a party, but it was also the same day the noble who looked after the area or something decided to write down a list of potential Catholics and witches. He made the list by counting all the people who didn’t show up to communion or something that day, which meant that the people at the party were on the list.</p><p>So then the noble guy sent the vassals or knights over to their barn to go put them in jail, but when they went into their barn, the party was over and all that was there were a bunch of mice and rats. So they then went over to the house they lived in and arrested everyone who went to the party, as well as the neighbors and other people who didn’t go to communion or whatever that day. All the party people were put on trial and found innocent since apparently, the party was a communion party, so they were let off the hook.</p><p>Anyways, later on there's this kid who lives next door to the people who threw the party, and he said a couple of years later that he saw one of them lifting things without their hands and performing satanic rituals or something with their eyes rolling into the backs of their heads. And also while that was happening, a lot of people in the area were going crazy for no reason, which was really weird.</p><p>So now of course they end up in court again, and this time they were convicted for being witches and cursing their neighbors and making them go crazy. So then everyone in the town went to go watch them be hung and set on fire at the same time. It doesn’t sound like the most effective way to kill someone, but it worked I guess.</p><p>Now anyways, apparently the rodents who were in the barn from before were also psychic because it turns out that the town was built on an undiscovered mineral deposit of Psitanium, which isn't as big as the one here, but I mean people in the Middle Ages weren’t exposed to as much stuff back then, so it probably affected them a lot more. Now the mice and rats were pretty upset, because not only were they friends with the people who threw the party, they were also now most likely going to get kicked out of the barn by whoever ended up moving into the people’s old house.</p><p>So as an act of revenge, they decided to go and kill as many people as possible, because they could explode on command. They all got onto different ships headed for places all around the Old World and went to as many old medieval cities as possible and exploded in an attempt to kill as many people as they could.</p><p>I mean they also brought their fleas with them, which apparently had also mutated due to the Psitanium that now had an extra mutated disease they could carry, that then got transferred to humans, which was pretty bad. The next thing you know, everyone’s dying of plague and exploding rodents, which makes it really hard to run a kingdom. So the king gets really mad and decides to ban rodents from everywhere. That means the mice and rats can’t continue their revenge plan, because I guess they couldn’t find any loopholes within the law to make good enough excuses anymore.</p><p>They all went off to the only places they were allowed at that point, but since the humans were humans, they shared their new homes with weren't the same guys who killed the people who threw the party, they didn’t purposefully try to kill anymore. Since America was one of the places without that rule, some of them decided to go over there to live legally and what not. With a lot more open space and all, they didn’t have to interact with humans anymore, so that's why they left the native people alone.</p><p>But after a while, the same guys who lived in the kingdom ended up sailing over and stealing the land. The rodents were still really pissed, but they couldn’t tell the difference between the native people who they liked, and the other guys who they were still mad at. So using their psychic powers, they told the natives that if they ever saw a rodent, they had to say a password so that the rodents would know they were cool.</p><p>However, over time the natives forgot what it was, and never told anyone else, so now nobody knows how to keep the feudal rats and mice from trying to kill you. So even today, if you ever see any common rodent with psychic abilities, there is nothing you can do to stop them from doing everything in their power to assassinate you.</p><p>Rumor has it that places with a lot of Psitanium, even this very camp, have the same rats and mice, waiting for their opportunity to make you explode. Or give you the plague. The plague is still dangerous, but since the government isn’t feudal anymore and science has progressed a lot, you can get medical help for it. It can still kill you, but it’s a lot harder. I mean medical knowledge is better so the exploding issue is probably not as big of a deal as it used to be, but it could still definitely kill you too.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Tale of the Sinking of the Fantaise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Elton very nervously makes his way through a story he has researched himself - the sinking of a luxury French ocean liner off the Florida coast in the 1930s, which is alleged to have been caused by a sea monster.</p><p>Content warnings: Implied death</p>
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    <p>Over the course of the night and everyone else's stories, Elton could feel his legs beneath him turning to mush. At the same time though, he couldn't pass up the chance to try his hand.</p><p>“U-uh??” He stammered and stuttered. “C-can I try?”</p><p>“I don't know,” Cruller replied, raising an eyebrow. “Can you?”</p><p>Elton paused. Was the question from the old man a snide remark, or a challenge?</p><p>A whisper bounced around in his head from Milka. <em>You can do it. </em></p><p>Elton nodded towards Vernon. Vernon passed the speaking stick over to him. There was no turning back now.</p><p>“Y-yeah. I can.”</p>
<hr/><p>Allow me to set the scene. So, there’s this personal injury attorney that comes by my mom’s hotel every once in a while. And one time I heard him call Florida “the kitschiest, filthiest, most poisonous place on earth.” And also some other stuff. But Florida wasn’t always like that!</p><p>Before we had airplanes or even cruise ships, we had big ocean liners like the Olympic ‘n the Titanic taking people back and forth across the Atlantic. These ships were built for luxury and safety more than speed. There were waterproof compartments built into the hulls so that the ships wouldn’t get flooded. Behind those compartments were more than half a dozen different floors for all the guests to stay on, and - yes, yeah, I know that the Titanic sank, Kitty, I was - I was trying to avoid that, avoid getting derailed. Okay, I’m gonna keep telling my story now!</p><p>The Titanic and the Olympic were from England, but a lot of the prettiest, sturdiest ocean liners were French. French ships had a <em>je ne qu’est-ce que c’est </em>that other ships didn’t have. When the Prohibition happened and Americans couldn’t drink root beer anymore, they went to the French ships so they could enjoy what they were missing out on.</p><p>And that’s around the time that they built the <em>Fantaisie</em>.</p><p>Even among all the other French ships, the <em>Fantaisie</em> was amazing. She was as big as the <em>Olympic</em>, as beautiful as the Ile de France, and could cross the Atlantic in less than a week. Her interior was all done in this Art Deco style, and crystal lamps and gold lined the stairways to the floors below deck. She took the young, the rich, and the beautiful people from all along the East Coast, and she took them to Europe, the Caribbean, South America, and more. Wherever you wanted to go, the <em>Fantaisie </em>could take you there, and she would take you there in style.</p><p>Even after the stock market crashed, the <em>Fantaisie </em>saw plenty of business. Other people might have been poor, but the richest people still had enough money for a ride. In the last week of October of 1931, the <em>Fantaisie</em> cruised along the coast to collect passengers for visits to Cuba, the Bahamas, and Casablanca. The last stop was Florida - on Halloween night.</p><p>She cruised into Port Canaveral that afternoon dressed for the occasion. Jack ‘o lanterns lined the deck, saying hello to the passengers with a candle-lit smile. Tickets were delivered with lists of Halloween party suggestions, and paper slips that said they would protect against witches and mischievous spirits. Though the <em>Fantaisie </em>was French, her owners and managers wanted a proper American party atmosphere on board so all the rich guests would be happy and buy more of that delicious French root beer. During that afternoon, as socialites and movie stars boarded the ship, it seemed like they had done it. They came dressed as ghosts, ghouls, vampires. They brought big heavy masks that didn’t look like any monster in particular - they were just spooky and that was what counted. The townspeople said they could already hear the guests’ laughter before the ship even left the harbor. They said it sounded like the chirping of a flock of bats.</p><p>No one knows exactly what the details of that party were. But one can guess. Picture a ballroom lined with silver and gold, with geometric patterns stretching across the wood panel walls and the ceiling of lights. Picture real human skeletons and a small haunted house for the young and the brave to dare to go into, and black cats alongside the cats kept by the crew. Picture celebrities, politicians, businessmen, heirs, and heiresses mingling together, laughing and dancing and drinking the night away. Maybe trying to scare each other with creepy jokes, like Clem does.</p><p>Waiters and maids, butlers and bellboys hurried all over the ship, drenched in sweat from trying to please the impatient passengers. They were yelled at by everyone no matter who was trying to serve who. Dining tables set with the finest of silver, with hollow pumpkins filled with rare treats in the middle. Serving platters of caviar, steak, and fine chocolates. Root beer, flowing like rivers! It was like a shiny little oasis out in the ocean, far away from the Great Depression the rest of the country had to deal with.</p><p>A few hours after the <em>Fantaisie</em> left shore, around midnight, she crossed paths with a Dutch cargo ship, the MV <em>Cassandra</em>. Her work hurt by the Depression, the <em>Cassandra</em> wasn’t carrying much on the current trip to the U.S. She was filled with tired and hungry men, hoping that their job wouldn’t be lost by the end of the year. It’s said that the crew heckled and grumbled when they saw the extravagant ocean liner passing them by in the dark distance.</p><p>There was a lookout onboard the <em>Cassandra</em>, a younger man named John van Royen. He stayed to stare at the <em>Fantaisie</em> while the others returned to their work or card games. Van Royen didn’t look like a sailor. He was skinny and got s-scared easily, and had thick round glasses instead of weathered tattoos. But the cargo shipping job was enough to make ends meet, and <em>that</em> was enough to get him to forget his fear of water. Even though he needed glasses, he had been a good lookout for his ship. Up until that hour, there’d been nothing to report. And now that the glamorous <em>Fantaisie </em>had appeared, John was too transfixed to notice anything else. He said later that there was something bewitching to him about her gold and orange lights, gleaming over black waters and beneath a cloudy sky.</p><p>But when those lights began to flicker on and off, he said it just felt witchy.</p><p>John called his crewmates to look at the <em>Fantaisie</em>. They ignored him. No one wanted to be reminded any more of the idle rich. Frustrated, he returned to his lookout spot near the masthead - only to see that all the lights on board the <em>Fantaisie</em> had completely gone out.</p><p>It was an eerie sight, to be sure, but John tried to reason with himself. Perhaps the <em>Fantaisie</em>’s passengers were playing a very big and complicated game of hide and seek. Or it was one more Halloween prank like the ones that had surely been had onboard. But when the waters started to get rougher, his fear grew. John tried to call again for his crewmates, and this time, an old American named Cooper came up to him. He told John to shut his mouth. Cooper had traveled this part of the Atlantic before, and every time, he said, around this point, a heavy blanket of bad feelings came over him. If John kept quiet, he said, and didn’t draw attention to it, they would get to the harbor without a scratch. But only if they ignored it. When Cooper finished his warning, a hollow, howling scream echoed across the winds.</p><p>John was not a superstitious man, but he was normal, and he was, y-y’know, scared. He agreed to obey Cooper’s command, and he tried to look away from the black shadow of the ship on the horizon line.</p><p>The minutes ticked by, each one eating into John. He rapped his knuckles on the mast - tap, tap tap - and flipped back and forth through the pages of a book he’d brought on board with him. Maybe <em>Moby Dick</em>. John closed his eyes tight whenever another sudden wave rocked the <em>Cassandra</em>, or when he thought he heard another whisper in the chilly ocean air. At one point, the captain came out and asked if John had seen anything strange that might explain the sudden turn for the worse of the weather. John lied and said no. H-his hands shook while he said so.</p><p>Just when John was starting to calm, he heard thunder in the distance. At least, it had sounded like thunder. He hoped it was only thunder.</p><p>John’s hopes were dashed as quickly as his heart started to pound when he heard his crewmates shouting and running to the edge of the deck. Those rugged sailors would never react that way to a mere s-storm. H-he stared straight ahead, h-h-his hands gripping the mast like he could r-ripped away at any moment. The other men s-started to scream, and the infrequent waves from before turned into a roiling, turbulent ocean. Seaspray sent his hair every which way and made his glasses useless. John t-t-thought it was better that way. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his tongue to keep from crying out, even as he thought he heard s-screams and shrieks from f-far away carrying towards him. The first mate burst out of the bridge, in a panic, rocking back and forth thanks to the waves, and asked Jonathan what was out there. He had no answer. And he didn’t want to find out.</p><p>Someone shouted out that they saw the shadow of tentacles in the distance. Others said it must’ve been a whale, or a wave too blurry to define. John wouldn’t l-let himself guess, because the far-off cracks and crunching he was starting to hear didn’t sound like anything of this world. He just stared straight ahead, stared straight ahead. He didn’t move even when a few of his crewmates were blown overboard by spray and had to be f-frantically rescued. H-h-how could he? What if he would be next?</p><p>...S-s-so, are you guys okay? N-no one too scared? Great! Great! I-I-I’m glad you’re all s-so brave!</p><p>It felt like an eternity before the waters s-stilled, and the cries came no more. John slumped to the floor of the bridge. The muscles in his legs were sore from being locked for so long. He almost couldn’t move his jaw for a while, it had been set so tight. The <em>Cassandra</em> had made a break for it after the crunching started. Thankfully, a few distant lights from the harbor were starting to appear over the ocean. It seemed he had lost his book somewhere along the way, and his glasses, but better those than his life. The captain and first mate came out once more, together, and they seemed to understand just by looking at John. The captain nodded, and the first mate quietly patted John’s shoulder. They hurried back inside after inspecting the crew with a glance.</p><p>Cooper then came back up - at least, John thought it was Cooper. It was harder to tell the older men of the crew apart when he was half-blind. Cooper confirmed it was he, and said John had done a good job. No tempting fate like the sorry few who had temporarily gone overboard. John asked with a whisper what had happened.</p><p>“To be honest, young man,” said Cooper, “I’ve never found out for sure. But those waters carry a dark presence, one that neither science nor God can explain. If you keep yourself invisible and unremarkable, and don’t provoke it, you’ll get by fine… but I suppose all those rich racket-makers could never do such a thing.” John’s tongue still felt fused shut, so he simply nodded along with the old man’s musings. Cooper kept him company till they reached the shore, keeping his mind away from the ocean with cards and lighter stories.</p><p>No one believed John or the rest of the crew when they said what they had seen. People saw it as a bad joke, and no one had a sense of humor to spare in the Great Depression. John said many years later that he didn’t blame them; he knew his story was unbelievable, that it was only based on distant sounds and sights. But… to this day, no one has found any other explanation for the sinking of the <em>Fantaisie</em>. And it had sunk. She never reached Cuba, and no sightings of her were to be had after that fateful Halloween night. Though no wreckage was ever found, a sinking seemed like the only possible fate. The <em>Fantaisie</em> was listed as sunk, and all her passengers and crew as missing, or worse. The only thing anyone ever found of her came a week after her departure. On an unseasonably cold Saturday, a dockworker found a broken bottle of root beer washed up on the shore.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. The Tale of the Puzzle Box</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Raz's family has been to many places. Two of the Aquato siblings - an exasperated older sister, and her adventurous little brother - are given some time to explore a cozy but unfamiliar vacation town they've stopped in. While out and about, they find an out of the way curiosity shop…</p><p>Content warnings: <span>Body horror, squick, vomit</span></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The moon in the night sky was beginning to sink. What had started just after sunset had now passed over into the late night. Even Cruller, who the kids swore never slept, could feel his eyes getting heavy.</p><p>“I think we have time for one last tale,” he said. Cruller looked directly at Raz. “I think our new friend here should be the one to end things.”</p><p>“He's- he's in the circus!” Elton said. He stared at Raz with wide eyes. “It’s haunted, right? Cursed games, haunted houses, clowns?”</p><p>A few campers snickered. Raz tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.</p><p>“No. Why do you think that?”</p><p>“Everyone tells me the circus is haunted!”</p><p>“Well, my family's circus isn't.” Raz giggled. “Though, while traveling, I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe.”</p><p>Lili’s eyes twinkled. “What have you seen?”</p><p>Raz motioned with his head for the talking stick. Holding the stick in one hand, he slid his goggles down with the other.</p><p>“Why don’t I tell you?”</p><p>Raz leaned forward. He smiled. The flames of the campfire flared, sending out an orange flash against the long shadows.</p><p>“I call this… The Tale of the Puzzle Box.”</p>
<hr/><p>Last summer, my family and I performed in New York. Before we arrived, even if I wasn’t reading volumes of <em>True Psychic Tales</em> under the covers, I couldn’t sleep a wink! Instead of sleeping, my siblings and I stayed up talking. Well, almost all my siblings. Frazie would bury her head underneath her pillow. We talked until Dad would stumble into our caravan with heavy eyelids. Our imaginations went wild with skyscrapers, a sea of people and taxis, and endless lights.</p><p>On that fateful morning, I was the first one awake. Dressed in my sweater, jacket, hat, and goggles, I was ready to see the center of the universe. At the crack of dawn, we hurried up to the window and pressed our faces against the glass to see the skyline we had only seen in magazines. A vista of rolling forested mountains and a lake greeted us, with endless buildings and the ocean nowhere to be found. The sign we passed by read, ‘Welcome to the village of Lake George!’</p><p>Queepie was the first to break the silence. “A <em>lake?</em>”</p><p>“I thought we were going to the city,” Mirtala said. A collective sigh rumbled between us. Mirtala walked back to her bed, flopped over, and wormed her face into her stuffed cat. “Wake me up when we see the green statue.”</p><p>“There’s one here.” Dion tugged at my sweater. I slapped his hand away.</p><p>Frazie yawned. She turned over in bed to face us. “No city, huh?”</p><p>“Nope,” Dion replied.</p><p>The rumbling caravan came to a stop. There were three quick raps at the door, and then Dad came in. He scanned the room.</p><p>“Razputin, since you’re dressed, can you give me a hand?”</p><p>There was nothing better to do now. I followed him outside and helped him with setup for the performances. A few hours later, Frazie came out, dressed in a blue summer dress and a pair of tights.</p><p>“Hey Dad?”</p><p>“Yes, Frazie?” Dad looked up from working.</p><p>“Can I go into town?”</p><p>“I'm going too!” I piped up.</p><p>Frazie rolled her eyes.</p><p>“Yeah, I guess my little brother could come too.”</p><p>Dad looked over to Mom. Mom nodded. Dad dug into his pocket, then pulled out a few crumpled-up bills. He handed me a twenty, and Frazie two.</p><p>“Be back by sundown.” Dad turned to Frazie. “And keep Razputin out of trouble.”</p><p>“Bet I can get there first!” I sprinted with my arms outstretched off the fairgrounds and down the sidewalk. A laugh rang out behind me, and another pair of frantic steps joined my own. “Oh no you don’t!” Frazie and I chased each other towards the main street.</p><p>Soon, I screeched to a stop. A few seconds later, Frazie came sprinting up beside me. As I caught my breath, I looked around. Restaurants and novelty shops lined the street. People wearing fancy city clothes wandered about. Though there were plenty of people, this town was a mouse compared to the concrete jungle of skyscrapers, unfamiliar faces, and honking cars in my dreams for the past week. Upon seeing the look on my face, Frazie ruffled the lock of hair peeking from my pilot cap.</p><p>“I know, it’s not the Big Apple. I just figured we could make the most of it, y’know?”</p><p>I nodded my head. Running under the blazing sun had stolen my voice. We began to walk down the street together. Frazie let out an exasperated <em>whew.</em></p><p>“I'm melting in this heat. And from the looks of it, you are too.”</p><p>I managed to muster up a ‘yeah’.</p><p>Frazie stopped and turned, looking for something. When she walked into a tucked away path, I stood in silence on the sidewalk for a few seconds before following her. Frazie blinked.</p><p>“Man, you’re <em>really</em> out of it, aren’t you?” She laughed. “Why don’t you take a look at the sign?”</p><p>I lifted my head to read the sign above the little shop. When I saw the sign, I bounced up to the counter. <em>Malamute Ice Cream</em>.</p><p>I eyed the selections scrawled up on the chalkboard. They had the standard flavors - vanilla, chocolate, vanilla-chocolate swirl. Then, there were flavors I had never heard of. Pralines &amp; Cream, Tagalong, Rum Truffle? Was a Tagalong a sort of fruit? We didn’t have fancy flavors back at the circus.</p><p>“Can I get a scoop of banana split?” Frazie asked the employee behind the counter.</p><p>Frazie’s eyes blinked down to look at me, and then back to the employee.</p><p>“And a scoop of mocha Oreo, for Razzy.”</p><p>I bounced up and down. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a chance to taste the delicious blend of chocolate, coffee, and cream. We got our ice cream, Frazie paid, and we continued down the shady path.</p><p>“Frazie! You remembered!”</p><p>“How could I forget? Annoying as you may be, you're still my little brother.”</p><p>Frazie reached down and pinched my cheek. I tried to squirm away. She giggled.</p><p>“I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you.”</p><p>As we walked and savored our ice cream, we took a flight of stairs down to the waterfront. Long shadows cast from the buildings shielded us from the sun. Unfortunately, the mix of shade and a frozen treat didn’t release the heat’s grip on my brain.</p><p>“Man, I’m still sweating bullets!”</p><p>“I don’t know what you expected wearing a sweater in July, Razzy.”</p><p>“Let’s get out of the heat.”</p><p>Frazie looked at the storefronts surrounding us. “Where? Looks like it’s all restaurants around here.”</p><p>My eye spotted a storefront that didn’t say <em>Cafe, Buffet, </em>or <em>Seafood.</em> Above the doors, in fancy letters read <em>Banjo's Oddities and Curios. </em>The building it was a part of was a bit taller than the surrounding buildings, casting a longer, darker shadow. Frazie raised an eyebrow and shrugged. We ate the last of our cones, then headed inside.</p><p>A bell tied to the inside handle rang out when we walked in. Warm orange light from uncovered lightbulbs filled the room. The smell of dusty old books and half-melted lavender candles floated through the air. There was a wooden desk, with no one behind it. Behind the desk were bookshelves forming a tight maze. The shelves were overflowing, lined with rows of colorful plastic bins to hold excess items. There were lamps, clocks, statues, stuffed animals, books, paintings, figurines, jewelry, mugs, purses, toys, posters, china, globes, compasses, calculators, generators, matching salt and pepper shakers.</p><p>A deep voice bellowed from the depths of the store. “Oh, sorry! Some new shipments came in today!” Around a corner came a barrel-chested fellow with a lion's mane for a beard. A large coat draped down to his ankles. He towered over Frazie, who towered over me. Brown eyes poking through his dark beard and hair peered down at us.</p><p>“Ah, children! Call me Banjo.”</p><p>“I’m sixteen,” Frazie replied.</p><p>From the depths of Banjo’s stomach and through his beard came a deep chuckle.</p><p>“What brings you to the great Adirondacks and my little shop?”</p><p>“We're with the circus! My name is Raz-” I took a small bow. “-and this is Frazie!”</p><p>“Well, have a look around! Don’t be shy! I have gimcracks, kickshaws, and folderols from all around the world!” His voice was the rumble of thunder between the tight walls. I didn’t know what any of the things he said he had could be. I looked over at Frazie. Some of the color in her face had disappeared. I figured it must have been from the heat outside. She could cool off in here. I took Frazie’s hand and tugged it. For a moment, she hesitated. Then, we walked down one of the hallways.</p><p>I peered at the odds and ends lining the shelves, looking for anything out of the ordinary. A small book caught my eye, sandwiched between a stained-glass lamp and a colorful ceramic orb. The book's cover was black, dotted with hundreds of tiny painted stars. Printed in white letters: <em>An Abridged Fieldbook to Minds and Mentality.</em></p><p>In a heartbeat, I snatched the book and flipped through the pages. I had seen this book before - well, that is, in <em>True Psychic Tales</em> Number 74. Written by Helmut Fullbear a few months after the founding of the Psychonauts, it was his original guide to exploring mental worlds. In the years afterward, forgeries of the book appeared on store shelves. I had to make sure this was the real deal. I turned the book to the back cover. Etched on the back cover was an outline of a brain. Below it, in letters that I had to squint to read: <em>Property of the Psychonauts, 1963.</em> The letters glittered purple in the light from a hidden layer of Psitanium. This was original Psychonauts memorabilia! I turned around to show Frazie.</p><p>She was facing a shelf, flipping through a leather-bound tome with yellow pages. I stood up on my tiptoes to peek inside. There were symbols I had never seen in my life. Was an ancient book of spells? Was Frazie a witch? Were psychics also witches? Once we got back home, I would have to ask her to teach me some of her favorite spells. (As it turns out, psychics and witches are two different things.)</p><p>Despite making myself as tall as possible to look over Frazie’s shoulder, she didn’t turn her head. Is she ignoring me? I asked myself. Is this some sort of game? I decided to press my luck. I took a single step, touching my foot against the floor as light as a feather. The floorboard underneath me let out a loud creak that echoed through the hall. Frazie didn’t look up. I took another step. Frazie still didn’t look up. Was I home free...? Continuing to tiptoe, I crept around a corner of a shelf until I was out of sight. I braced myself for an annoyed ‘Raaaz?’. Not a single word came from her. Freedom at last!</p><p>Clutching the Psychonauts book to my chest, I explored the depths of the store to see if there were any more treasures hidden within. As I made my way down the hall, the lights above became dimmer. At the end of the hall was a thick door held on large metal hinges. ‘<em>Staff only! Keep out!</em>’, the door sign screamed. The door swung open, and out came Banjo. He had a cardboard box covered with dozens of labels under his left arm.</p><p>“What can I help you with, son?”</p><p>“Do you have anything else related to psychics?”</p><p>“Well, nothing like that book you found came in on this shipment. But I do have something you might find interesting.”</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>Banjo set down the cardboard box between us and crouched onto his knees. He dug his hands inside. Packing peanuts crinkled as he pawed through the inside. After a moment, he pulled the contents out and freed it from its bubble wrap prison. In his hands was a dark wooden puzzle box, twice the size of a large onion. Each side had colorful gears, knobs, levers, and more protruding and embedded into it. The parts were carved into the shape of the sun, moon, stars, and flowers. Etched across the box were symbols like the one I saw in the book Frazie was going through.</p><p>“The Fiamberti Configuration. From what the seller told me, a brilliant engineer created this in the sixties. It was one of his last creations before he vanished. Don’t know if he’s being exactly truthful about that. The man who sold this is a strange fellow.”</p><p>Banjo outstretched his hand towards me. I set the book down, took the box into my hands, and turned it around. The wood was smooth and worn. There was a slight warmth underneath my fingers as if the box was alive. My eyes followed curving paths on the grooves and mechanisms. With one finger, I traced out the paths. The craftsmanship of the box trapped my thoughts like glue.</p><p>From inside the box came a faint gurgling sound. I held the box up against my ear and shook it. It responded with the sounds of sloshing and bubbling, louder than before. It didn’t sound like water.</p><p>I had to fight to tear my vision away from the box to look back to Banjo. If the outside of this puzzle was so captivating, what could it hold inside?</p><p>Banjo smiled when he saw the look on my face. “Curious little thing, isn’t it? I've never had much luck with puzzles.”</p><p>“I’m great at puzzles!”</p><p>“Perhaps you would be able to solve it?”</p><p>“Do you know what’s inside?”</p><p>Banjo laughed. “Not the faintest idea. You’ll just have to find out!”</p><p>“Raaaz? Raz, where are you?”</p><p>Frazie’s footsteps approached us, getting louder with each step. Banjo placed a leathery hand on my shoulder. He smiled. “It's yours,” he mouthed to me. I nodded and slipped the box into my backpack. Moments later, Frazie came around the corner. She held a glittering necklace in one hand.</p><p>“Did you find anything interesting?”</p><p>“I found an original copy of <em>An Abridged Field Book to Minds and Mentality</em>! Look!” I picked up the book and held it out. She looked to Banjo, then to me, then back to Banjo. Her nostrils flared.</p><p>“Just pay you upfront, right?”</p><p>“Mhm.”</p><p>Frazie turned around and led me back to the front of the shop. Banjo picked up the cardboard box and followed behind us. In the thin corridors, his shadow loomed over us. Between two fingers, Frazie fidgeted with her hair. Her head was slightly bowed.</p><p>Soon, we reached the front desk. Banjo went behind the desk and typed into a computer. We handed our bills to him. When Frazie handed Banjo the money for the necklace, she kept her head lowered. A few keyboard <em>click-clacks</em> and the <em>ding </em>of a register later, Banjo handed us our change.</p><p>“Thank you for coming in, friends!” Banjo handed Frazie the receipt. “I’ll have to catch your show sometime soon!”</p><p>She took the receipt, crumpled it up, and stuffed it into her dress pocket.</p><p>“Let's go, Raz.”</p><p>Frazie snatched my hand and yanked me through the doors. Before the door closed behind me, I looked back into the shop. Banjo gave me a smile and a wink. I blinked. He had vanished. The door slammed shut, and an icy breeze ruffled my jacket. I slid the book into my backpack, placing it next to the puzzle box.</p><p>“Make sure Dad doesn't see that book.”</p><p>“Frazie? Are you okay?”</p><p>Frazie swallowed her spit. After a moment, she sighed. There was a frown on her face.</p><p>“It’s… just my imagination, Raz.”</p><p>“What are you imagining?”</p><p>“Nothing important. Let’s go.”</p><p>We started to walk back to the fairgrounds. Frazie didn’t say much on the way back and dragged her feet behind her as we walked. At first, I thought the heat had stolen her voice like mine. Yet, she wasn't sweating one bit. Her eyes were blinking a bit faster than usual. What had caught her tongue?</p><p>When we got home, Mom was still outside, putting up decorations. She greeted us with a smile and a small wave.</p><p>“Your father is about done cooking. Did you two have a nice time?”</p><p>“Fantastic! We got ice cream and explored for cool stuff at a weird store!”</p><p>“It was nice, Mom.”</p><p>“Well, you two should probably- my. What is that stench?”</p><p>From my backpack came the scent of oil and wet Playdough. A couple of months ago, Mom chewed Dion out after she caught him sneaking gross stuff into our bags.</p><p>“Must be your older brother again… Speaking of, where is Dion?”</p><p>“Probably getting in trouble again, Mom.”</p><p>Mom sighed. “I'll go look for him after dinner. You two head inside. I’ll be there in a moment.”</p><p>I made a mental note to myself to check my backpack after dinner. Frazie and I headed inside the common caravan and took our seats. Mirtala and Queepie were already at the table. Dinner tonight was Manhattan clam chowder.</p><p>“So what did you do today, Mirtala?” Frazie asked.</p><p>“After helping Mom out, she took me to the arcade! I won a bunch of toys.” She smiled.</p><p>“Daddy? Can I help after dinner?” Queepie asked Dad.</p><p>“Of course you can, sweetheart.”</p><p>Midway through chowing down, a security guy came in. He had a furrowed brow, and his head was slightly tilted downwards.</p><p>“Augustus, sir? I apologize for the interruption. Someone wants to talk to your son.”</p><p>Dad got up from his seat. “They can talk to me.” I held my tongue. Even Dion wouldn’t argue with Dad when his voice became cold. He walked out of the caravan. A few moments later, we heard a conversation. At first, the voices were only wordless rumblings. There was an annoyed tinge in Dad’s voice. As the voices grew louder, we strained our ears to make out what they were saying. Mixed with Dad’s voice was a rough rumbling much deeper than his; it could only be Banjo.</p><p>“...is dangerous. I need it back,” said Banjo.</p><p>“Please leave, sir. My children didn’t buy anything like that from you. You’re mixing them up with someone else.”</p><p>“No, it’s not-”</p><p>“Leave.”</p><p>“I need to talk to your son! Raz!” Banjo's voice was the roar of a grizzly.</p><p>“Security!” The sound of Dad's feet hitting the grass came inside as he fled. Even without seeing the scene outside, I knew that Dad trying to take on Banjo would be akin to fighting the dancing bear.</p><p>A fist pounded against the door. The floor beneath us rumbled as if an earthquake had struck. Silverware, plates, and bowls rattled. Everyone jumped in their seats. Even Frazie screeched in terror.</p><p>“Raz!” Banjo yelled. “I- Get off me!”</p><p>Sounds of a struggle came from outside as security dragged Banjo away. A few minutes later, Dad came back inside. He let out a pent-up sigh.</p><p>“That man was certainly something else. Razputin? Do you know what he was talking about?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Dad sat back down, and we continued eating. Silence filled the air. An itch crawled up my back, causing me to shuffle in my seat. Mirtala looked at me with a raised eyebrow. I replied with a shrug and a blink; ‘I’ll tell you later.’ A screeching wail of a siren from outside broke the silence.</p><p>Mirtala looked to Mom. “What’s that alarm for?”</p><p>“The firefighters in towns around these parts are volunteers, dear. The siren tells them to get to the station.”</p><p>Once our bowls were empty, Mom gathered up our dishes. Queepie hopped out of his seat and scurried to Dad, jumping as high as his two little legs would let him. Dad laughed, took Queepie’s hand, and led him outside. After doing the dishes, Mom was the third to leave.</p><p>“You want to show me some of the toys you got from the arcade?” Frazie said as she got up from her chair.</p><p>“Yeah!! You’ll love the little robot dog I got!”</p><p>“Would you like to join us, Raz?,” Frazie asked.</p><p>“I'm going to catch up on some comics.”</p><p>Frazie shot me a wink as she put on her worn vinyl jacket. Then, she followed Mirtala outside. I headed out after they left and walked toward the bedroom caravan. Mom was adjusting her coat with one hand and waved at me with the other.</p><p>“Have fun. I’ll be back with Dion in a couple hours.”</p><p>I waved back, then went into the bedroom caravan. At this point in the evening, the sun had dipped below the mountains. A half-faded red glow spilled from a window into the caravan, but I had to turn the light on regardless. I took off my backpack, hung it over the back of the desk chair, and took the puzzle box out. The field guide would need to wait until after bedtime. I sat down in the desk chair and set the box in front of me.</p><p>“Time to crack you open like an egg.”</p><p>As it turns out, the puzzle box refused to give up its secrets so easily. After ten minutes, I pulled out my journal and a purple gel glitter pen. I jotted down notes; of the symbols, the way each part turned, slid, and twisted, what fit into what and what didn’t. The light from the window faded away as I took notes and experimented with the box. Slowly but surely, as I fiddled with the pieces, the box split and twisted apart more and more.</p><p>An hour or two into figuring out the puzzle, a sliding panel revealed a combination lock. Where numbers or letters were supposed to be, there was a series of symbols on the dials. How was I supposed to solve this? I took a look at the symbols engraved on the box, and then back to the lock. Some of the symbols on the dials matched those carved on the box.</p><p>I turned the dials to match the symbols that I found on the box. When I set the last dial, a gear in the shape of a flower popped further out. Curious, I toyed with the gear between my fingers. It no longer turned. Instead, I had to slide it through a groove in the box. Soon, it came to a stop in the center of one of the sides. I turned the gear between my fingers. A <em>click</em> of a handle rang out from inside. The hinges creaked, and the two halves of the box split apart as I opened it up to discover its prize. Except that there was no glittering bounty inside.</p><p>Surrounded by sharp wooden teeth lining the inside lids of the box was an open container of black slime. Opaque bubbles both small and large gurgled on the surface. When the bubbles popped, they belched out the disgusting scent from earlier. The surface of the slime rose, surging towards the edges of the box. Not keen on getting my hands covered in goo, I set the open box down on the table. The slime continued to grow in size, spilling over the sides of the box and oozing out onto the table. I backed away but was unable to take my eyes off it. Its slow and slippery movement had caught my mind, like watching a slug slithering in the mud.</p><p>“What is this stuff?”</p><p>I had encountered slime toys before. When she was seven, Mirtala bought a can of neon green slime. She played with it until one of the dogs got into the can and ate it. However, slime that boiled like a mad scientist’s concoction was the stuff of late-night drive-in movies.</p><p>A single poke with a glove on couldn’t hurt, right?</p><p>I reached out a single finger from my right hand closer and closer, then gave the substance a quick jab. The slime had the consistency of melted bubblegum and the stickiness of flu snot. It was warm, and I felt pulsating beneath my touch. A wet <em>slurp</em> came out of the slime as it squeezed between my finger and the surface of the table.</p><p>Despite my light touch, my finger was glued in place. I tugged with my wrist to free it from the slime. When that didn’t work, I pulled with my shoulder. My finger eventually came free, but a thick string stuck to the tip of my finger emerged from the slime. A pit at the bottom of my stomach, and I swallowed to try and keep it down. I wove my hand to get the string to break. The slime became tangled between my fingers and draped over my hand.</p><p>Through the hole on the back of my glove, the slime slid onto my skin. A tingling sensation crawled under my skin from where the slime touched. The sensation engulfed my hand, made its way through my arm, and up through my neck. I grabbed at the slime on my skin with my left hand to pull it off. Instead of coming off, the slime smeared and stretched between my hands, refusing to let go.</p><p>The tingling flooded my veins on my cheeks and made its way onto my forehead. There, it grew rhythmic, morphing into a pounding sensation above and between my eyes. I held my hand against my forehead. Blazing heat surged through my head from where my fingers touched. A yelp escaped my lips, and I shot my hand away as if I had touched a hot stovetop.</p><p>Underneath where my hand was a moment ago, there was a soft, swollen lump. The mound was more painful than a black widow bite. The pit at the bottom of my stomach sank lower, and a shudder shot down my spine. Now aware of its presence, I could feel the mound growing and squeezing itself against my skull. For a moment, the floor beneath me rocked in the waves of a storm. Then, I could feel the growth moving, swiveling back and forth inside my head, and a thin layer of skin flickering up and down over it.</p><p>I had gained a third eye.</p><p>The room around me rippled and swam. More eyes emerged from underneath my skin across my forehead. Skin, muscles, and bone were hollowed out to create sockets. Each pull, swell, and squeeze stacked on top of each other and burned through my nerves.</p><p>Holding the edge of the table with one hand, I tried to stand up. My legs trembled as a swelling pressure built inside my left foot. The muscles twisted themselves into a bundle of tight rubber bands. Then, there was a snap. Something growing from my foot ripped through the fabric of my shoe. My sense of balance gave out, and I fell to the floor.</p><p>The slime oozed over the edge of the desk, beaded into thick drops, and dripped onto me. Each slimy, sticky drop splattered and soaked through the fabric of my sweater and jacket. Goosebumps erupted across my skin.</p><p>I opened my mouth up to scream. Instead, silence fell on my ears. A weak cry escaping through my lips broke the silence. I trembled against the floor. My body was splitting apart into a corrupted reflection in the pieces of a shattered mirror. What would happen if I kept splitting apart?</p><p>Fighting through my thoughts, I tried to find the strength to get back on my feet. My body swayed on my mutated foot, but I managed to stay upright. I staggered towards the door, hobbling as quickly as I could in case I gained an extra leg or three that broke my balance.</p><p>Once I reached the door, I grabbed the doorknob and began to twist and push. At first, the doorknob refused to turn. On my fingertips and palms beneath my gloves were misshapen lumps, preventing me from getting a good grip. I didn’t dare try to take my gloves off to get a better grip. Instead, while trying to open the handle, I threw myself against the door. The door crashed and swung open. I took a brief tumble down the stairs and onto the grass.</p><p>A mix of moonlight and carnival lights cast a soft glow on everything. From a ways away, I heard Frazie and Mirtala giggling as they played with the toys Mirtala had won. Above me, the stars had come out, but my vision wasn't stable enough to gaze up at them. I crawled around a corner and hid behind the side of the caravan facing the trees. The shadows cast from the forest obscured my twisted body.</p><p>Putting my hand up against the side of the caravan for stability and guidance through the dark, I limped towards Frazie and Mirtala's voices. Normally, I would be able to get to them in moments. Now however, each moment was stretched out. My shaky breathing and slow footsteps counted every second ticking by. Blades of grass brushed against my skin as the growth from my left foot continued to force its way out of my shoe. The sound of my feet dragging against the leaves and grass caused Frazie and Mirtala's playful laughter to stop.</p><p>“Is someone there?”</p><p>“Frazie?”</p><p>“Raz? What's wrong?”</p><p>I could hear her heart sinking. I dipped my head so she wouldn't scream.</p><p>“Help me,” I whimpered.</p><p>Frazie's tentative footsteps approached me. I braced myself in place, trying to focus on the ground below me to block out my swirling thoughts. Her footsteps stopped. The yellow spotlight of a cheap plastic flashlight cut through the shadows and landed on me. There was a moment of hesitation.</p><p>“Raz… No, no...”</p><p>Frazie's voice trailed off. Her hand came under my chin, guiding me to look up at her. When I did, I saw her staring at me with wide eyes. Her other hand was covering her mouth. Her body rattled, and tears welled up in her eyes.</p><p>“Fraz? Is everything alright with Raz?”</p><p>Frazie gulped. “Go help Dad or head inside.” Her voice shook, but she didn't stutter.</p><p>“But I want to help Raz-”</p><p>“Mirtala, do as I say, not as I do.”</p><p>Mirtala left without another word.</p><p>Frazie took her jacket off, then buried her hands under it to improvise gloves. Her eyes darted back and forth, trying to find a place to begin.</p><p>“I… Let’s get this stuff off of you. Give me your hands.”</p><p>I held out my hands, and Frazie reached out. The shiny outer layer of the jacket was her only line of defense from the slime. She grabbed my slime-covered gloves the best that she could manage, then yanked. My gloves came off, and we found ourselves face to face with another new ‘feature’ of my body.</p><p>My fingers and nails had split in half. The cuts started from my fingertips and went halfway down the length of my fingers. Skin covered up where copious amounts of blood should be gushing from. The ends of the growths curled into spirals, and new nails grew on the tips. Free from the confines of my gloves, I instinctively wiggled my fingers. Each growth moved independently of one another like real limbs. Frazie leaped in her skin and dropped her jacket and the gloves.</p><p>“What the fuck is happening?!”</p><p>I could hear pounding in Frazie's ears, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Careful to avoid touching the sleeve of my jacket or sweater, she grabbed one of my ten-fingered hands. She led me outside the shadows of the trees behind the caravan.</p><p>I didn’t have time to wonder where she was taking me. Moments after we left my hiding spot, a blast of cold water hit me with the force of a kick to the stomach, forcing out a screech. Frazie spun on her foot to face the direction the water came from.</p><p>Standing in front of us once again was Banjo. He had replaced his winter’s coat with a bright orange jacket, with his long hair buried beneath a plastic yellow helmet. His hands were covered with a pair of heavy-duty gloves, holding a hose dripping with water.</p><p>“What- what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Frazie yelled.</p><p>“I’m washing all this mutation gunk off him.” Banjo brandished the hose. “Stand back!”</p><p>“No! You're going to kill him!”</p><p>Banjo raised his eyebrows. “What are you on about?”</p><p>“You set us up, didn't you?”</p><p>The hose fell out of Banjo’s hands, followed by a loud thud. The boom in his voice vanished.</p><p>“What… Why on earth would I kill an innocent child?”</p><p>“Frazie, I feel better.”</p><p>Frazie turned to me and gasped. The cool water caused the pain to fade away. My extra eyes lost form, shank in size, and melded back into my forehead. My split fingers fused back together. The growth coming out of my foot retreated into my skin and shoe. Frazie's shoulders went slack and she let out a sigh of relief. She reached towards me with open arms, and then-</p><p>Then, the eyes came back, twice as big as before. New eyes started to grow beyond just my head. They tore through my sweater and jacket as they bubbled up on my chest and arms. My fingers peeled apart like paper being ripped in half. The new cuts made their way down onto the palms of my hands. My shoe was torn to shreds as the growth came back as a fully grown foot, pulling apart from my left foot as a third leg emerged. The pain also surged back, shredding my nerves apart and burning them to a crisp. A scream erupted from my throat.</p><p>“Make it stop! Make it stop!!”</p><p>Another blast of water hit me. This time, the mutations fought back. My third leg slung my body forward, and the extra eyes focused on Banjo. I twisted and dug my right foot into the ground to anchor myself. My twenty fingers and my third foot started to drag me through the dirt towards Banjo. While the water caused the fingers and eyes to become smaller at first, they resisted and the shrinking soon stopped. The water pressure grew stronger to keep my body at bay. Frazie backed away from me.</p><p>“We need more water!” Frazie said.</p><p>“Any stronger will tear Raz apart,” Banjo replied.</p><p>From afar echoed a screech from Mirtala. She came running towards us.</p><p>“Why is our room flooded with… I don’t know?”</p><p>Mirtala’s eyes fell on the scene before her. The color drained from her face, her breath went still, and her eyes glazed over. She was a deer caught in the headlights of a runaway train.</p><p>With the two eyes that I could control, I looked towards our bedroom caravan. The slime was pouring out the door and over the steps. “The… the box is in our bedroom.” I choked on my own words; something had begun to grow inside my throat, slowly forcing its way up and out.</p><p>“Of course!” Banjo shut off the hose and ran into our bedroom caravan. For a moment, the caravan shook from his footsteps. Then, he came out. Held in his rubber gloves was the puzzle box. Slime covered the box, its shape being the only way to tell what it was. He forced the box shut; for a moment, I wondered if he could crush it between his hands.</p><p>With all his might, Banjo hurled the box across the fairgrounds and into the lake. It spun through the air as it flew, then hit the surface of the water with a thunderous splash. For a moment, the box bobbed on the surface. A hail of tiny bubbles burst around it as water flooded the inside. Then, the box sank into the depths of the lake, disappearing into the dark waters.</p><p>The shock of ice-cold water flooded my veins. The slime became thinner in seconds and dripped off my body. My fingers fused back together. The third foot and extra eyes melted away, mixing with the slick slime. Banjo hit me with a final shower of water, spraying the putrid mixture off me. My ripped, damp sweater and jacket clung to my skin, causing a shiver to shoot through me. But compared to the feeling of being shredded apart in two, the feeling of damp fabric was a blessing. Frazie ran up to me and grabbed me by my shoulders.</p><p>Mirtala broke out of her trance. “Fraz, don't-”</p><p>“Raz?” Frazie shook me by my shoulders. Her eyes were still wide. “Raz, answer me!”</p><p>The rattling flipped my already knotted stomach upside down. The only answer I was able to muster up was vomit. The acid burning my throat and nostrils was a soft kiss of normalcy. I stumbled backward and collapsed into water-soaked grass.</p><p>“It’s gone.” I pulled my knees up to my chest, not bothering to get up from the ground. “It’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone…”</p><p>Frazie scooped me up into her arms, pulling me close to her chest. Instead of trying to escape her touch, I went limp in her arms. The world spun and teetered back and forth. She choked between loud sobs. Her tears dripped onto my face. I had seen Frazie smile, laugh, and pinch my cheek. That fateful night was the first time I ever saw her cry.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The witching hour was upon the camp. The moon had dipped below the trees, and the fire was nothing more than a smoldering pile of ash with a few flickers. Eyes were either wide or half-opened in a vain attempt to stay awake. Cruller was gone; the campers were too immersed into Raz’s tale to notice him vanish like Michael Myers. An owl started to call into the darkness.</p><p>Without a word, the campers began to stand up and head back to the cabins. Raz and Lili were among the last ones to leave the campfire circle. They stayed close to each other as they walked down the trail together. Each and every breath they took shuddered in their ears.</p><p>In the corners of their eyes, they swore they saw something skittering, slithering, moving. They hurried their pace, not daring to find out if it was just their imaginations, or something else.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Credits</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <ul>
<li>
<strong>Pinky G. Rocket</strong> - Project Lead, Editor, Logo, Graphic Design, Web Design, Video, Author (Prologue, The Tale of the Puzzle Box, Epilouge)</li>
<li>
<strong>SincerelyMendacious</strong> - Project Management, Author (The Tale of Mom’s Seafood Surprise)</li>
<li>
<strong>Cait</strong> - Author (The Tale of the Spectors of Cinderwood Ranch, The Tale of the Sinking of the Fantaise)
<ul>
<li><a href="https://dogencool.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a></li>
<li><a href="https://twitter.com/caitsplace">Twitter</a></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li>
<strong>Josiessaqua</strong> - Author (The Tale of the Infinite Obituary)</li>
<li>
<strong>Memphis Baines</strong> - Author (The Tale of the Psychic Rodents)
<ul>
<li><a href="https://memphisbaines.carrd.co/">Carrd</a></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li>
<strong>Board</strong> - Cover Art
<ul>
<li><a href="https://backtotheboard3.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li>
<strong>Annyoin</strong> - Additional Logo Design
<ul>
<li><a href="https://annyoin.carrd.co/">Carrd</a></li>
</ul>
</li>
</ul>
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